


Every Lifetime for a Thousand Years

by kurtshappinessisblaine (Slwmtiondaylite)



Category: Glee
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Angst, Character Death, Child Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, HIV/AIDS, Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Public executions, Sexual Abuse, Suicide, Tragedy, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 19:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slwmtiondaylite/pseuds/kurtshappinessisblaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It wasn’t the first time they met. It wasn’t the first time they fell in love. Kurt felt the truth of Blaine’s words. They’d been together before. Different names. Different times. Sometimes it was but for a moment. Sometimes it was a lifetime. Often it was met with tragedy. Tragic love stories desperate for their happy endings, destined to repeat themselves until they could get it right. And this time, Kurt thinks they may have done it.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> <br/>1000 years. Several lifetimes. Sometimes Kurt and Blaine. And sometimes Konráðr and Bláán. Candide and Blaise. Corradino and Baldassare. Different lives. The same love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2013, Kurt Hummel

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** [daysofsilence](http://daysofsilence.tumblr.com)  
>  **Artists:** [animateglee](http://animateglee.tumblr.com) (year 1878) and [owlmethis](http://owlmethis.tumblr.com) (years 1013 & 1513)  
>  **Warning(s): As history is dark and ugly, PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS.** HIV/AIDs, Character death(s), Child Abuse, Explicit sexual situations (including: Top!Kurt, Top!Blaine, Bottom!Blaine, Barebacking), Homophobia, Infidelity (canon compliant), Panic Attack, Physical Abuse, Public execution(s) (including: Burning at the stake, Hanging, Gunshot at point blank range) Rape and sexual abuse [implied, not ‘on-screen’], Significant Age Difference (of 25 years), Sex (consensual) with a minor (according to modern laws), Strong language, Suicide, War violence (including: Amputation without the aid of anesthesia, Abdomen wound from musket fire, and Nazi Concentration camps)
> 
>  
> 
> **Notes:** Because this story is based on history and is a past lives story, Kurt and Blaine do have different names in each time period. Simply because it’s highly unlikely that a Renaissance painter from Florence would have the name Kurt. So I tried to give them that were more in sync with the time periods. I think (hope) it’s obvious who’s who. 
> 
> Also, I can’t promise that all the translations I’ve used are accurate (especially the Old English and Old Norse). I’ve tried my best, but I’m sure that there are inaccuracies.

 

Kurt’s hand swept across the front of his jacket, smoothing it out and feeling the rich texture of the fabric across the pads of his fingers. He grabbed a small heart-shaped brooch from the vanity in front of him. He ran his thumb across the art nouveau lilies on the silver brooch. It had belonged to Carole’s mother.

 When he saw it yesterday, while helping her clean out some of her old things from the attic, he’d expressed his love of the piece. She told him he could borrow it if he wanted. “It’d look lovely with that blue jacket you just bought,” she told him with a smirk. His nerves pitched—she knew, too?—and he had tried to play it off. “Turquoise, Carole. Not blue. Turquoise.” She laughed, saying nothing more.

 He pinned it to his lapel and stepped back to look at himself in the mirror. He’d styled his hair in his trademark perfect coif. The suit— _turquoise_ jacket and pants, purple shirt—fit him well. And Carole was right. The brooch was the perfect finishing touch. _Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue_. A giggle bubbled in his chest but fizzled before it could leave his throat. Kurt stared at his reflection. Was he ready for that? Were they? They just decided to try again mere days ago and now—

 He shook his head. He still had no idea what to say. Would it be the right thing? Would he be making a mistake? For the past few years, since that fateful day on the staircase in Dalton, he’d felt these strange memories stirring in his head. He’d thought they were remnants of elaborate dreams, dreams that stuck with him even years afterwards. But they felt stronger. Powerful. They felt like more than mere dreams.

 He did research, wondering about those dreams. Past lives. That’s what he found. There was no way to prove it, of course. But there was no way to disprove it. He found many theories about why some people seemed to have them. And many explanations about how they weren’t real. But if they weren’t real and just a figment of an active imagination, then why did he feel his heart break when he saw a documentary about medieval Europe? Why did he clench his teeth to refrain from yelling at the teacher, shouting at him that some of those soldiers he’d vilified—they didn’t want to be there any more than anyone else.

 Yes, Kurt Hummel believed in past lives. Because he lived them.

 Being the romantic he was, Kurt’s favorite theory was about soul mates. Two people bond together beyond the boundaries of one single lifetime. It was a beautiful thought. And he clung to it, telling himself that was what his dreams and his memories were telling him. Somewhere out there, his soul mate wandered the world, just as determined to find him as he was.

 When Kurt had met Blaine, he thought he found him. His soul mate. Those weird and sometimes scary memories in his head he’d had for as long as he could remember finally made sense.

 Now, they were back together and, while his heart pitter-pattered in his chest and his soul sang out with joy, as he stood in front of the mirror, a voice in the back of his mind questioned everything. That questioned his attachment to and love of Blaine. Was Blaine really the one he searched for? If Blaine asked and he said ‘yes,’ would he be making a mistake? Would the real one he searched for spend the rest of his life alone?

 But if he said ‘no,’ would he be condemning them to a lifetime of loneliness, destined to spend another life searching for something they’d had and let go?

 He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could do this. He could make it through this. He could it through this and no one would have to get hurt.

 A knock on the open door startled him.

 Kurt opened his eyes and turned around.

 His father. “You ready to go? Got your things packed up?”

 Kurt took a step towards his bed and closed his suitcase. “Yeah.” He zipped it, the loud _ziiiiiiiiiip_ echoing off the white walls of his old room. He set the suitcase on the ground and pulled the handle up. He looked at his dad.

 Burt eyed him, tilting his head, eyebrow raise. “You wearing that on the plane?”

 Kurt’s eyes dropped to the suit. He opened his mouth then hesitated. Did he let his father know he knew Blaine’s plan? Did his father know that after Rachel had let slip what Blaine planned to do, he’d wrangled all the details she had down to the color outfit Blaine planned to wear? Even if he didn’t know yet what he would say—even if  he still vacillated between ‘yes!’ and ‘it’s too soon,’ he wanted it to look amazing. He wanted Blaine and himself to look stunning. Looking at his dad, he shrugged, giving him a small smile. “Well, you know what I always say. Every—”

 Burt joined him. “—moment is a opportunity for fashion.”

 A giggle slipped from his lips. He rubbed his free hand along the side of his pants, feeling the palms grow clammy.

 His dad nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

 Kurt gave him a quick nod and the smile slipped from his face. His fingers danced across the handle of his suitcase. His stomach rolled and his throat caught on the thick lump as he tried to swallow.

 Burt spoke. “Get your things.”

 Kurt nodded and tightened his grip on the handle. He followed his dad out of his room and out the house. Ready or not, he had to face it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Burt killed the SUV’s engine and Kurt and he climbed out of the car. “It’s hard being married though.” He snorted and shut the door. “It’s hard enough being in your twenties.”

 They both came round to the front of the SUV.

 Kurt tilted his head. “Do you wish you waited?”

 His dad leaned on the hood, his eyes intense. “Not. One. Second. More. I wish I met her ten years earlier. I didn’t know then that I’d only get so much time with her, you know? That she was going to leave us so soon. I’d take fifty more years of late night fights about, you know, me working late or the gas bill or her letting the milk go bad for just…ten more minutes with her next to me. We only get a few days when it comes to it, Kurt. You know that better than anyone.”

 Kurt hesitated, taking a deep breath.

 “Look, totally being honest here?” Burt walked around the hood towards Kurt. “Blaine asked me what I thought about this and I gave him my opinion.”

 Kurt’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “Which was?” How long did his dad know about this? Would he give him the answer he still searched for?

 Burt shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. “My opinion doesn’t matter here.”

 Kurt took a deep breath then released it in a slow puff, the air lingering against his lips.

 “You’re your own man now. But giving you a choice means you gotta make one. So relax. Hear what the guy has to say.”

 Kurt looked back at the school. Blaine was in there. Blaine was be waiting to hear his answer. What would he say?

 “Then all you gotta do is say ‘yes,’ no,’ or ‘maybe.’”

 Kurt turned back to his father. His fingers shook where he kept them stuffed in his pockets. “Is there another option?”

 Burt chuckled.

 “What if he’s not the one?”

 “What if he is?” Burt countered.

 “How do you know?” How would he know if he’s making the right decision? That he’s not going to screw this up? They were so young. Would it work for them? If Blaine was the one he was looking for?

 His dad shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what to tell you. You just do.”

 And the music started.

 Kurt took another deep calming breath and looked at his dad one more time. This was it. He wasn’t going to get help or directions from his father. This was all on him.

 He walked up the drive to Dalton. Towards Blaine.

 

 

* * *

 

The song ended and everyone erupted into loud cheers.

 Kurt joined the applause for a brief moment, but he felt the clamminess and the trembling of his hands and he dropped them back to his sides. He looked around him, his eyes wide and his mouth opened. How did Blaine manage all this? New Directions. The Warblers. Vocal Adrenaline? Haverbrook?  

 When the crowd calmed down, Blaine, smile wide on his face, spoke, looking at everyone around them. “We met right here. I took this man’s hand and we ran down that hallway.” Blaine motioned to the hallway behind the crowd. “And for those of you who know me, know I’m not in the habit of taking people’s hands I’ve never met before.” He gave a nervous chuckle and Kurt smiled.

 Then Blaine looked at Kurt, meeting his eyes, and kept his gaze. He stepped up one step, moving closer. His voice lowered. “But I think my soul knew something my mind and body didn’t know yet. It knew that our hands were meant to hold each others, fearlessly and forever—”

 Kurt inhaled. Those words. He’d heard them before. Felt them and yearned for them.

 “—Which is why it’s never really felt like I’ve been getting to know you. It’s always felt like I was remembering you from something. As if every lifetime you and I have lived, we’ve chosen to come back and find each other and fall in love all over again, over and over for all eternity. And I just feel so lucky that I found you so soon in this lifetime because all I want to do, all I’ve ever wanted to do is spend my life loving you.”

 Kurt blinked tears away. His heart galloped in his chest. Blaine’s words danced in his head. This was it. What he searched for when he grew old enough to understand the dreams and the memories. When he felt shadows of words, of promises whispered again and again.

 Blaine released a short puff of air. He reached behind him and Sam placed a ring box in his hand. Blaine took another step up the staircase.

 Kurt took a breath. It was coming.

 He slowly exhaled.

 His answer echoed in his ears.

 This would be their happy ending. Finally.

 


	2. 1013, Konráðr and Bláán

The small ivory comb slid through his hair. The comb’s sharp teeth caught a large tangle in his front tresses and Konráðr winced. His hand reached up and grabbed the brown fringe and he ran the comb through it again and again, snagging on the knot, until finally, the hair was smooth. Outside, the chilled wind screamed, beating the taut woolen cloth of the tent walls. He knew what awaited him out there: two _ells_ of snow, frigid air, and scores of Æthelred’s soldiers. He would relish seeing each and every one of them burn. This land would belong to Sveinn Tjúguskegg.  


 Konráðr ran his hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the long fringe in front before gliding across the short hairs in the back. A quick pat-down of his freshly shaved face came next. He didn’t touch the harsh ugly scar running from his nose to his right ear. He could do nothing about it. And it wasn’t so bad, he supposed. He’d seen worse on the others. Hell, he _caused_ worse. Sibbe could attest to that.

 Outside, the horn blew.

 He stood, took a deep breath, and wrapped the fine wolf pelt around his shoulders. He grabbed his sword and his kite shield. He took a step towards the tent's opening before turning back around and teaching for his seax. The small knife slid into the sheath on his trousers. Konráðr threw the tent flap aside and stepped outside.

 The cold wind slammed against him, wrapping him in its frigid tendrils, and he gasped, his teeth clattering. Clenching his sword and shield in his hands, he made his way to the _bóndi_. They didn’t consider him one of them. Yes, he dressed like them and participated in battle as one of them, but he wasn’t one of them. And he didn’t try to pretend otherwise. His father was too important. A _hersier_ among Sveinn’s army, commanding the swarm of soldiers and freemen. He was, by birth, above them. Even if his father had little use for him.

 The men were all gathered around a small fire, talking and laughing as they polished their swords. Konráðr had no interest in joining them though he knew he must. Shaking his head to swing the fringe out of his face and behind his shoulders, he stomped through the snow towards them. His foot caught in a pitfall and he stumbled.

 Laughter came from the campfire. Konráðr squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a sigh. His face flushed and he felt hot, despite the cold. They were laughing at him. He knew they were. They always were. Still, though, he waded through the plush snow towards them. He couldn’t let them see his discomfort. They were larger. Larger than his slight form, but he was a great warrior. His blade had fell many a foe. He was fast. He was agile. But he still cringed at the prospect of gathering with his fellow soldiers. Their words cut through him sharper than any blade could.

 As he approached them, their words became clear. Sibbe, the man to whom he gifted a nasty scar, stood in the center of the crowd. Gesturing with his hands, he spoke, “And then the wench begged for it. She and her friend.”

 The men laughed. They whooped and hollered. Some congratulated Sibbe with pats on the back and shoulders.

 Konráðr kept silent. He sat next to Egill, a large brutish man, and placed his sword across his lap and his shield on the ground next to him. He dug around in the pouch strapped under his jerkin and brought out a piece of cloth. He brushed it across the sword’s blade, polishing it until it caught the light of the light.

 Loud guffaws around him. The conversation stopped.

 Konráðr looked up. Everyone’s eyes were on him.

 Sibbe narrowed his eyes. “Did you hear me?”

 Konráðr sighed and lowered his sword. “What?”

 “We were talking about the wenches at the tavern down the way. Get the blood pumping before the battle. Your turn.”

 Konráðr dropped his eyes to his sword then back to Sibbe, who waited for an answer.  “I have not been.” It was true. Unlike his companions, he found he had no interest in such activities.

 The men laughed.

 Sibbe smirked. “Still haven’t bed a woman, Konráðr? I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. What wench would be interested in such a womanlyman? An _ergi._ ”

 Konráðr bristled. “Need I remind you how you got that scar?”

 “Oh, you can swing that sword. Of that, there is no doubt. But that’s all you’ll be.”

 Konráðr stood, throwing his shield into the snow and pulling his seax up, pointing it to Sibbe. “Perhaps you would like for me to give you another scar. One to match?”

 Sibbe laughed. He stepped closer to Konráðr, mere inches separating them. He towered over Konráðr. “I admit, you bested me last time. But now, I’m watching you.”

 Konráðr narrowed his eyes and his fingers twitched around the hilt of his seax. He ached to thrust the blade upward, slicing through Sibbe’s stomach.

 A yell sounded.

 Konráðr jerked his head towards the sound.

 Two _bóndi_ gripped the arms of another man. He struggled against them, crying out. The men threw him down in the middle of the circle of soldiers and freemengathering. He stumbled, collapsing in the snow, his heavy cloak catching around his legs. A flash of gold around his wrist sparkled as he wrapped his arms around himself. Dark curly hair. Blood poured down his face from a cut on his cheek and a broken nose. His eyes danced around the crowd of men, a deep golden hue, before landing on Konráðr.

 Konráðr gasped and looked away. But his eyes darted back to the boy. And he was a boy, not much younger than Konráðr, his eyes wide, lips trembling and face ashen.

 “What’s going on?” a voice boomed. Konráðr’s father, Audhild. The _hersier_. He marched through the crowd, standing tall above them. His wolf-hide cloak draped over his shoulders, sweeping across the snow. His great sword affixed to his side.

 One of the men, broad in the shoulders, took a step toward the commander. “We found this _fífl_ hiding behind the rocks over there.” He pointed to a large boulder peering over the snow just beyond the encampment. “He belongs to them.”

 The boy rose to his hands and knees, crawling away from the soldiers. A man stepped out of the circle and kicked him lying in the snow, hide-covered boot colliding with the boy’s stomach. He cried out, curling into a fetal position.

 Sibbe walked away from Konráðr, closer to the boy. “A spy?”

 The _bóndi_ and soldiers erupted into yells and taunts. Another man let his foot fly and slam into the boy’s shoulder, the momentum throwing him onto his back on the snow, cloak spread out like wings. Blood—his blood—soaked the front of the plain woven tunic he wore. A jagged tear sliced through the left knee of his long thin pants.

 Konráðr’s feet itched to move. He wanted to step forward, to stop the men taunting the boy. The boy looked at him again and Konráðr couldn’t look away.

 “Silence!” Audhild yelled.

 A hush swept over the crowd.

 The _hersier_ walked to the boy and knelt in front of him.

 The boy’s eyes left Konráðr’s and looked at Audhild. His body trembled, whether from the cold or fear, Konráðr didn’t know.

 “What are you doing here?” Konráðr’s father asked.

 The boy stared at him. His head shook slightly. His thick eyebrows furrowed and he bit his lip. His eyes darted to Konráðr and back to the _hersier_.

 Audhild growled and let his fist fly, colliding with the boy’s cheek.

 The boy collapsed in the snow, crying out. He grabbed his face, closing his eyes and flinching.

 “Answer me.”

 But he received no answer.

 Konráðr took a step forward. “ _Faðir_.”

 Everyone looked at him. Sibbe smirked. The _hersier_ nodded to him, waiting.

 Konráðr opened his mouth then closed it. He shook his head. He couldn’t do it. He could fight men in battle, sink his sword into their flesh without a hint of fear in his eyes. But his father—one look from him and he backed down.

 Sibbe snorted.

 Audhild stood up, moving away from the boy. He scanned his men. “Get rid of him, Egill. Grab the axe. Take him over the hill.”

 Egill nodded and walked to the campfire, where the large broad axe lay in the snow.

 The boy’s eyes widened and he gasped, his face turning ashen. His lips trembled and his body locked up when Egill, carrying the axe in one hand, seized his arm and hauled him to his feet. He stumbled.

 Konráðr’s heart raced, the beats echoing in his ears. No. He couldn’t let this happen. The boy didn’t do anything. Not yet. And he was young. Was his father harsh enough of a man to condemn a boy—a child—to death?

 “Father,” Konráðr’s voice sounded. He stepped to the boy and Egill. “Don’t. I’ll take him.”

 Audhild narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry?”

 “You’ve been telling me I need a manservant.” And it was true. Konráðr had grown weary of his father hounding him to take one on. But no one wanted to be the manservant of an _ergi_. What would happen behind the closed flaps of the tent? But here, he had a chance to save someone. “Let me take him.”

 Snickers sounded behind him. He fought to ignore them, to not respond.

 “You expect him to stay here and follow orders from _you_?” Sibbe said, crossing his arms.

 “If he tries to run away, I’ll deal with him.”

 The _hersier_ was silent for a moment, studying his son. Konráðr fidgeted on his feet. Then: “Fine. He’s your problem now.”

 Konráðr nodded. “Thank you, Father.”

 Egill released the boy, shoving him into the snow.

 Audhild surveyed his men. “We engage Æthelred’s army tomorrow at dawn.”

 Konráðr reached down and helped the boy to his feet, their eyes meeting again. The boy’s fingers clung to Konráðr’s and he squeezed his hand. Konráðr returned the gesture.

  

* * *

 

* * *

 

Konráðr shoved the swaying flaps of the tent aside later and entered. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Those men his father had beneath him were heathens. Cruel. When they weren’t swinging their swords on the battlefield, they relished flinging words meant to cut just as deep as the blades of their weapons. He swiped blood off his cheek, hissing when his rough fingers caught on ragged wound. The cuts and bruises and blood he could handle. The taunts—

 Something crashed to the ground, metal clanging against itself..

 Konráðr gasped, his eyes flashing open. His hand reached for the seax at his side.

 The boy, the one he saved, lay on the ground. In his hand, he grasped one of Konráðr’s swords, his fingers wound around the hilt.

 Konráðr reacted quickly. He rushed the Anglo-Saxon and kicked the sword away, watching it skitter across the small tent’s floor, burying itself under his sleeping pallet. He bent down and seized the boy’s collar, hauling him to his feet. “What are you doing?”

 He shook his head, holding his hands out.

 “I save your life so you're going to take mine?”

 The boy rattled his head, brow creased. “ _Cwæ, ne ábilgest mé_.” (Please, don't hurt me.)

 Konráðr shook him. “What are you doing?”

 “ _Ic_ _áþierre_.” He jerked his head to the ground. (I clean.)

 Konráðr followed his eyes. And saw the cloth. The swords, the shields, cleaned and shiny. He lowered his knife and stepped back, his hand slipping from the boy’s collar. He looked at the weapons, shiny and clean. “What is this?”

 The boy wrapped his arms around his waist. He looked at Konráðr but couldn’t keep his gaze, dropping his eyes to the ground. He stumbled over the words of Konráðr’s people. “ _Þak_ —”He squeezed his eyes closed and shuffled on his feet. “ _Þakka fyrir._ ” (Thank you.)

 Konráðr nodded. Of course. Repayment. For when Konráðr saved his life. And when Audhild was willing to go along with it. He tilted his head. “What’s your name?”

 The boy shook his head. The same furrowed brows he gave Audhild. The same narrowed eyes. He didn’t understand.

 Konráðr gave him a small smile. He would not attack him. He would not hurt him. Not like those men out there. Not like his father. “Your name?”

 The boy shook his head again.

 He pointed to himself. “Konráðr .” He closed his eyes. What was the word? He cleared his throat and searched for the word. He had heard it spoken before. “ _Nafn_?” He shook his head. No, this boy wouldn’t understand that. He couldn’t assume he would. He knew he’d heard the word before. One of his comrades-in-arms saying it to a petite girl before taking her to his bed. “ _Nama_?”

 The boy nodded, the curly hair bouncing on his forehead. “Bláán.”

 Konráðr smiled. “Bláán. Very well. It’s nice to meet you.” He motioned to the pallet on the ground. The only place in the tent to sit.

 Bláán hesitated.

 Of course. Of course, the boy wouldn’t trust him. Of course, he would react to him the same as every other man Konráðr had encountered. He was an _ergi_. He tried to not allow it to upset him. He sat alone.

 “ _Þu nereest mé_.” Bláán looked down then at Konráðr, speaking slowly. “You...saved me. Why? Your enemy.”

 Konráðr opened his mouth to answer. He had an answer. He must. He saved a member of the enemy’s forces—a spy—from death. The risks, the dangers in doing so. He must have an answer. But no words came to him. Would it matter if they did? Would this boy understand him? He shook his head. He didn’t know. He couldn’t explain it.

 Bláán walked to him. He knelt in front of him. “ _Ic béo éower._ _Mín lif, éower._ ” (I am yours. My life, yours.) He leaned in—Konráðr felt his breath rush from his lungs—and his lips brushed across Konráðr’s. 

 Konráðr gasped, his mouth falling open.

 Bláán jumped back, stumbling backwards, skittering across the hay on the tent’s floor. He mumbled words over and over. Konráðr couldn’t understand him.

 “No. You—you surprised me.” Konráðr rose to his knees and crawled to where Bláán sat, limbs spread across the ground. He leaned over and kissed him. He pulled away again. “This is strange. I feel like—” He took a breath. Bláán didn’t understand him, not completely, but he still wanted to say the words. “I feel like this is supposed to happen. That we’re supposed to be—”

 Bláán nodded, his head bobbing up and down, a smile on his face. And he pulled Konráðr closer, his lips falling Konráðr’s and his arms wrapping around his shoulders. The wolf-skin cloak fell to the ground.

 

 

* * *

 

Konráðr arched his back and, with a loud groan, spilled his seed into Bláán’s hot mouth. His fingers dug into the thick hide blankets.

 Bláán swallowed, sucking the last few drops, then released him. He crawled upward, sticking his head out from under the covers, panting and sweating. He smiled and pressed his body against Konráðr’s, kissing him and rutting against his hip.

 Konráðr reached down and stroked him. It took mere seconds before Bláán came, panting against Konráðr’s mouth.

 Bláán moved off of him, settling down next to him.

 They lay together, naked and huddled under the wolf-skin blankets. Outside the wind howled. The men cheered and hollered. Konráðr ignored it all. Bláán sighed, running his hand across Konráðr’s chest, pressing his knee further between his.

 “Are you okay?” Konráðr asked. Bláán had joined him on the battlefield today. Konráðr told him he didn’t have to, but after three weeks, Bláán insisted he needed to earn his place.

 Bláán was silent. He pressed himself closer to Konráðr. His body shook. Konráðr’s shoulder grew wet with hot tears.

 “Oh, Bláán.” Konráðr wrapped his arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you. I shouldn’t have expected you to do it.”

 “Not your fault,” Bláán whispered.

 Konráðr shook his head. Yes, it was. The moment he asked his father to spare the spy’s life, it became his fault. He dropped a kiss to the top of his head. A feeble gesture of comfort. But he had no other to give.

 

 

* * *

 

Their swords flew through the air, clanging when they struck metal, whomping when they struck wood. Squishing when they hit flesh, a symphony of yells, grunts, groans and collapsing bodies thudding when they hit the ground. The two of them fought side by side. One, the cast-aside son of a great army’s commander. The other, a traitor to his people, who had forsaken them for his enemy.

 Bláán swung the sword back, his muscles tense, and then—

 “Bláán?” An unknown voice.

 Bláán stumbled, falling to his knee, sword point stabbing the ground.

 Konráðr spun around, his hand reaching out, and he caught him. No, no, no, no. He couldn’t be hurt. “Bláán?” His name spilled from Konráðr’s lips. His hands skirted Bláán’s body, searching. Was he hurt? Where was the blood?

Bláán shook his head, trying to push Konráðr away, but Konráðr’s grip tightened. He helped him to his feet and Bláán looked at the soldier, his eyes wide and a grimace on his face.

The man, dressed like Bláán—a cloak, a short tunic, a broad axe in his hand—screamed at him. “ _Þu belæwest ús? Þu diernligeest mid pæt ælfolc?_ ” (You betray us? You sleep with that enemy?)

Bláán shook his head. “ _Nó. Hit sy ne_ —” (No. It's not-)

Konráðr’s hands dropped from him and, gripping the sword in his hands, spun around and the blade landed in the stomach of a Anglo-Saxon sprinting behind him. The man gurgled, blood curdling from his mouth, and he fell to the ground, dead.

Konráðr turned back around to face the man yelling at Bláán. He raised his sword, blood dripping down the blade towards the hilt.

The man ignored him, his eyes on Bláán. “ _Þu ofergieteest éower cnéowríme forslegen? Éower castle gebarn?"_  (You forget your slaughtered family? Your burned village?)

Konráðr looked at his lover, his brows knitted. What was happening? He knew a few of Bláán’s words, fumbling over them as he and Bláán lay together, naked and coming down from their highs. Just as he taught Bláán his language, but he was slower to catch them. Slower to memorize them. Some were easier to learn, so similar to his own words, but now, standing in front of both these men, he wished he understood more.

Bláán shook his head. “ _Hé ne—_ ” (He didn't-)

The man snorted.“ _Þu cnæwst pæm? Þu fornéðest hit?_ ” (You know that? You risk it?)

Bláán turned to look at Konráðr, ignoring the chaos around them. His eyes were wet, tears streaking his face.

Konráðr dropped his sword. What happened? What was wrong?

“I love you.”

Konráðr squinted, his brow furrowed. The words were on the tip of his tongue, ready to rush from his lips. But why now? “Wha—”

Bláán, a sob tearing from his lips, rushed at Konráðr, his sword raised. Konráðr gasped. The blade pierced his abdomen. Konráðr screamed. He grabbed Bláán’s shoulders. The sword exploded from his back. He stumbled. He fell to his knees. “Bláán?”

Bláán pulled the blade from his body and Konráðr cried out. Bláán fell to his knees in front of him, wrapping his arms around Konráðr’s shoulders, his waist. He sobbed and pressed a kiss to Konráðr’s forehead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice. I love you.”

He felt heavy. Konráðr reached for Bláán’s shoulders, but his hands fell, limp and useless at his sides. The pain stabbed and clawed at him. He whimpered. “Bláán?” Why? Why did he do this?

Bláán tightened his grip. “This land doesn’t belong to your king. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

But what about them? What about how they felt? Konráðr never felt so alive, never felt so safe when he was in Bláán’s arms. So accepted. Just weeks. They knew each other just weeks, but it felt like coming home. And now. He coughed. Blood sputtered from his lips.

Bláán sobbed into his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Konráðr nodded. He closed his eyes.

He never opened them.

 


	3. 1107, Christofarus and Benedictus

 

It was a tragedy. It was unforeseen. And it was unavoidable. That year in Winchester Cathedral, a horrible accident occurred. It was the fault of those who buried King William II beneath the Cathedral’s floors. God’s will. Because the King was wicked. That’s what everyone said.

 Christofarus, with bright eyes and pale skin, and Benedictus, curly mop of dark hair atop his head, were just children. Ages twelve and ten.

 Caught in the massive building, they couldn’t escape when the tower came crashing down. They were found, huddled near one another, their hands outstretched and reaching.

 They had just met that day.


	4. 1254, Candide and Blaise

 

All around him, the walls of the room loomed above him, threatening to collapse and swallow him whole. His clammy hands shook. His chest felt tight and he struggled to breathe. Today was the day. It was going to happen today. With a clenched jaw and grinding teeth, Candide stood in front of his father. He felt every bit like the child he still was at fifteen underneath his father’s stern gaze. He looked through him, behind him, eying the rich tapestry hanging on the wall behind him. The golden unicorn patterned across the deep red background looking regal and elegant amongst the other animals and foliage.

 “Please, father.” Candide’s voice shook. “Is there nothing you can do?” _Save him. Please, save him._

 His father sighed. “I  have exhausted all my favors with the Council and the Church saving _you_ , Candide. Do _not_ ask me to do the same for him.”

 “Please—” The words snuck through his lips before he clamped down.

 “No. I will not stand by and watch my oldest son, my heir _defile_ —” Father spit the word like curse. “—himself with that boy. The shame and the embarrassment you have brought upon me in insurmountable.” He stepped around his large desk, hands clasped behind his back. “After today, you will go to the Abbaye St-Pierre de Moissac and you will renounce everything and you will live the rest of your life as a monk. You will pray every minute of every day that the Lord will forgive you and allow you into his Kingdom.”

 Candide shook his head, ignoring the tears falling from his eyes. “No.”

 Father’s eyes narrowed. “ _What_ did you say?”

 He took a deep breath and spoke louder. “I said no. I will spend the rest of my life loving _him._ And only _him._ You can’t stop me, Father.”

 Father stepped toward him. He slapped him.

 Candide cried out, falling to the ground and cradling his face in his hand. His cheek burned.

 “Do _not_ defy me. You _will_ do as I say. Or you will join him.” Father towered over Candide, his form large and imposing. “Do you understand me?”

 He crawled to his feet, wrapping his arms around himself. He said nothing, but shook his head. He turned and ran.

 “Candide, don’t you _dare_ —”

 He ignored Father’s orders.

 

 

* * *

 

Candide stood aside, clutching the thick fabric of his scarlet robes to hide his trembling fingers. Dressed in his finest, because the man beyond this door deserved the finest, he took a deep breath. He looked at the guard, eyebrow raised.

_Keep up the façade. Don’t let them see your fear. Your pain._ The mantra ran through his head over and over. And had for the past two months, but it was falling apart. He was scared. He was too young to endure this. How could he endure this? How much longer could he wrap his arms around himself, squeezing and hoping he could prevent his heart from breaking into pieces and piercing his chest?

 The guard harrumphed and grabbed the handle of the thick door. Steeling himself against the ground, he pushed the door open. It creaked open and Candide entered.

 The prison was small. Dark. Dirty. Rank. He gagged on the stench of urine and feces, but stood tall. Candide could endure it. He could endure it because _he_ had to. _He’d_ been trapped in this place with the putrid smell, with the wet and cold floor and the musky air. Candide’s eyes landed across the room. Iron bars. And beyond that—

 He turned to the guard. “Please, leave us alone.”

 The guard shook his head. “But, _monsieur_ —” He glanced at the bars.

 Candide took a deep breath. What lies had his father told to keep him from sharing this room and made the guards think a monster resided behind the bars? It turned his stomach. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be safe. What could he do to me?”

 “We were told not to leave anyone alone with him.”

 Candide erupted, spinning around to face them. “LEAVE US!” His voice’s pitch rose high. _He’s not monster! The only monsters are you! And my father! And anyone who thinks he deserves this!_

 Behind him, a loud clang and a clatter, iron shackles hitting iron bars. Candide turned to look and saw hands reach out and grip the bars.

 He heard the guard leave, the door creaking closed behind him.

 “Who’s there? Mother?”

 A tear fell from his eye. His chin trembled. He faltered. No, it’s not his mother. Had he forgotten how his mother had forsaken him? Did he want to wish for something better? “It’s—it’s me.” Candide took a step forward. He could never turn his back on him.

 A hand stretched beyond the bars, fingers mangled and bloodied. Candide took another step forward and wrapped his fingers around Blaise’s broken ones. He choked back a sob and collapsed to his knees in front of him.

  _He’s dirty._ The thought rushed through Candide’s head. It’d been two months since they last saw each other. Blaise was handsome that night. Cleaned. Refreshed. Now, beaten and filthy. His curly hair matted. Bloodstains covering his skin and what remained of his  clothing.

 Blaise reached out of the bars with his free hand, brushed his fingers across Candide’s face. “ _Mon amour_.” (My love.) 

A sob tore through Candide’s throat. He pressed himself against the bars, as close as he could. “Don’t.”

 Blaise smiled, the handsome expression broken by the split lip glistening with blood. “Don’t what?”

 Candide looked at their entwined hands. He loved the feeling of Blaise’s touch on his body. He had longed for it. He had begged for it. Fell apart under it.

 And now? Now, he’d give anything to have never felt that touch. If it meant they wouldn’t be here, if it meant Blaise would still be free, helping to make the great city of Paris even greater. He would give it up.

 “Don’t act like this isn’t—” Candide broke off. He couldn’t say the words. He couldn’t say—

 “It’s not the end.”

 A sob. “Yes! Yes, it is.”

 Blaise shook his head and, reaching through the bars, cradled Candide’s in his hands. “No, it’s not. _Un jour nous serons à nouveau ensemble_.” (One day, we'll be together again.)

 Candide whimpered, tears cascading down his cheeks. He leaned into Blair's touch. “I should be where you are. It shouldn't be you.”

 A quiet laugh escaped Blaise's lips. “Your father would never allow that. Be thankful for him.”

 Candide could still feel the hot sting of his cheek where his father struck him. How could he be thankful? His father didn’t care about him. He didn’t keep Candide from the same fate because he loved his son. He was only concerned about himself. “He wants to send me away forever.”

 They fell silent, their hands gripping the other’s. Blaise winced when Candide’s strong fingers dug into his weak ones. Candide tried to relax his hold but Blaise shook his head. He looked behind him, his eyes directed to the high set window. “Are you going to be there?”

 The air rushed from Candide’s lungs and his stomach rolled. He closed his eyes and his body shook. He swayed and he gasped. He couldn’t breathe. A quick breath. Another shallow one. “Be there? You want me to—” He broke off, gasping. Tears leaked from his eyes and he waited for the dreaded answer.

 “Yes.”

 Candide wailed. “No! Please. I can’t.”

 “You have to.”

 He shook his head. “Don’t. I can’t do that.”

 “I want you there,” Blaise whispered.

 “ _Non, non._ I can’t.” Candide’s eyes slammed closed and he ducked his head down. _Please, don’t make me._ The thought rushed through his head over and over.

 Blaise reached through the bars and cupped Candide’s face. “Please, look at me.”

 Candide’s eyes opened but his tears blurred his vision.

 “You have to go. You can’t let them win. You can’t let them think they beat you. Me. I want you to watch. Don’t let them think they’ve won, _amour_.”

 Candide whimpered. “How can you expect me to—”

 “ _S'il te plaît_. I—” Blaise faltered. A tear fell down his cheek and his body quavered. “I need you there. I’m—”

 Terrified.

 The word hung between them like lead, crashing to the ground. Terrified. They were both scared. Both too young to experience this.

 Candide reached through the bars and pulled him close, kissing him, ignoring the blood on his mouth. “Okay. Okay. I'll be there.”

 Behind him, through the thick heavy door, a loud clamoring and a man yelling. Even muffled, Candide knew his father’s voice. Of course, Father knew where to find him.

 Their time was up.

 Their final moment together was over.

 “ _Je t’aime_.” 

“ _Sans crainte et pour toujours_.” (Fearlessly and forever) 

Another sob threatened to erupt from his throat. He held it in and, letting go of Blaise, he stood on unsteady legs. His eyes lingered on his for one final time.

 Then the door swung open and Candide, biting his lip to keep his heartbreak silent, slipped through the doorway and past the guards.

 But his father seized him by his robes and smacked him again.

 Candide’s head snapped to the side and he staggered into the hard cold wall behind him.

  “Do _not_ do that again,” Father scolded.

 Candide glanced at the closing prison door. “Yes, Father.”

 

* * *

 

He wavered on his feet, his entire body trembling. He could see the stack of wood and hay in front of the gathering crowd gathered around the tall stake. Soon Blaise would be there. A matter of minutes. Next to him, standing on the elevated staircase of Le Palais de la Cité, his father said nothing.

 

 On his father's other side, the Council stood. They had stared at him when they passed him earlier, their faces held in impassive stares. They glared at his father. Candide knew they were furious he wouldn't be up there alongside Blaise. He should be up there. He was just as guilty as he.

 A loud hiss.

 Another one.

 A cacophony of jeers.

 Blaise. 

He was here now.

 It was almost over.

 Candide clenched his fists. His fingernails dug half-moon crescents into his palms. He felt hot liquid ooze from his hands. Blood.

 Don’t let them see.

 Blaise turned the corner alongside the Cathedral. His bare feet caught on the uneven cobblestones and he stumbled, the wax taper in his hand wobbling. The rope wrapped around his neck wrenched taut for an instant, gripped in the hooded executioner’s hand, and Blaise’s head snapped back, a loud gasp escaping his throat.

 Candide’s breath froze in his chest.

 But Blaise righted himself, lowered his head, and walked around the side of the Cathedral until he came to the door. The executioner relaxed the rope and Blaise lay face down in the doorway. Loudly, he spoke. “Bless me, Father.”

 Silence swept over the crowd. They wanted to hear. Wanted to hear him confess his sins and beg forgiveness.

 Blaise sat up, resting on his haunches. “I do not ask for Your forgiveness because there is nothing to forgive. I ask that You forgive those who have condemned me.”

 Jeers from the audience.

 Candide gasped. He wasn’t supposed to do that. Wasn’t supposed to say that. His eyes burned. He closed them.

 The executioner bent down and grabbed Blaise by the scruff of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. Blaise dropped the taper. It rolled on the ground until it hit a raised cobble, wedging itself in the grout. The hooded man shoved Blaise towards the stake. Blaise, so much smaller, careened forward, skittering to his knees, fumbling to the ground again. On the ground, he struggled to his feet, flinching when a small rock hit him across the cheek, slicing his skin.

 Candide stepped forward. He needed to reach him. Needed to protect him.

 A hand slapped across his chest. “ _Ne pas._ ” (Don't.) His father.

 A harsh sob exhaled from Candide's throat and he looked at his father.

 His father shook his head, never looking at his son.

 Blaise stood and walked forward, his head held high, his eyes straight ahead. Candide wanted to smile—brave and defiant, Blaise was—and he would have if Blaise wasn’t walking to his death. Blaise passed Candide but didn’t look at him. He passed through the opening of the pile. To the stake.

 He stood still, his back to Candide, for a moment. And even from across the square, Candide could see him trembling through the thin material of his shirt. Blaise took a deep breath and turned around. His eyes scanned the mob and landed on his lover.

 The executioner walked around Blaise, wrapping a long rope and chain around him and the stake. Finally, he grabbed the rope around Blaise’s neck and pulled it back, securing it to the stake. Now Blaise had no choice but to stand erect.

 Candide’s body shook. His breath came in harsh pants, echoing in his ears. But he didn’t let his eyes drop. He didn;t stop looking at him. This would be the last time. He couldn’t afford to.

 Satisfied, the executioner stepped back and away from Blaise. He left the small circle of hay and wood, filling in the gap until Blaise was surrounded.

 Candide’s eyes didn’t drop. But his heart raced. He felt faint.

 The executioner marched to the fire pit and seized the torch. He held it up and the peasants cheered. A rush of anger colored Candide’s cheeks. They didn’t care about this man, this boy’s crime. They didn’t even know or understand it. But still, they wanted to see him burn.

 The executioner dropped the torch onto the pile.

 And the flames burst to life.

 Candide blinked. Tears fell.

 Blaise took a deep breath. He held Candide’s gaze.

 The smoke rose.

 Blaise gasped, searching for the air the fire consumed.

 Candide trembled.

 The flames licked Blaise’s legs.

 He flinched. He wavered. He gasped.

 He did not cry out.

 He looked at Candide.

 Candide fought to keep looking.

 The flames reached up and grabbed the sulfur-coated shirt Blaise wore.

 And finally, Candide’s eyes snapped closed.

  

 

And Blaise screamed.

 

  

A flinch. A tear. Another one. A hand reaching up to swipe them away.

 Another scream.

 The crowd cheered.

 

 

 Then the screams stopped.

 He slumped.

 The executioner’s iron bar—the bar he placed in the pile—jutted from his chest.

 An act of mercy.

 

 

 And it was over. He was gone. Candide wavered. Swayed. A keen, a wail bubbled in his throat and he choked on it, trembling with the force of it.

 He looked at the Council.

 He would never forget their faces.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two years later,  Chevalier Candide Villiers stood, silent and unwavering, on the gallows. He did not flinch when the hooded executioner placed the noose around his neck. He did not cry. He did not repent.

 His father stood behind the gathered mob. A statue.

 They begged. They pleaded. They bled.

 Blaise would never have approved, wishing Candide granted his enemies the same as he: forgiveness.

 But Blaise wasn’t here anymore.

 Because of them.

 They didn't deserve his forgiveness.

 He looked towards the sky, squinting against the sun. A silent plea for Blaise’s forgiveness. Because he couldn’t do it.

 The floor disappeared under his feet, his neck snapped and it went dark.

 


	5. 1349, Conrat and Baldewin

  

Conrat never had a chance to meet Baldewin.

 The Great Mortality had seized the world, sending out reapers to sow the lands and harvest souls.

 It started with his mother. His sweet gentle mother. Large tumors on her neck. She grew hot. Weak. Blood spewed from her mouth. She was dead within three days.

 His father came next. Just as swiftly.

 His brothers. His sisters.

 Was this his punishment for his wandering eyes drifting to Fabian? When Agnete vied for his attention? He didn’t know.

 He was left alone.

 He wandered the broken dying village. He gagged on the smell of rotting flesh. He ducked away from the horse-drawn carts carrying the dead and the dying.

 He joined them one month later, dead in the alley, collapsed against the wall. Blood down his chin. Erupted tumors on his neck.

 

 

Baldewin managed to avoid the Reaper. He spent his life alone.


	6. 1513, Corradino and Baldassare

 

Corradino leaned in, pressing his hand against the maulstick supported on the panel, the soft wrapped end pressed against the corner of the painting of the Annunciation, just behind the head of the Virgin Mary. He held the small brush in his hand, his grip light on the handle. His bright eyes scanned his area of the painting. What did it need?

 A flick of his wrist and a gentle wisp of paint fluttered onto the canvas, a golden tress completing the Virgin Mary.

 He sat back in the stool, placing the brush on the easel. It was done. A small smile danced across his lips and he stood, pushing the stool back and running his hand through his ear-length hair, rearranging the brown locks.

 “You think that will impress the Master?”

 Dino turned around, huffing.

 Giovanni. A squat round boy with a grimace always etched in his face like marble. His red doublet stretched across the expanse of his chest reminded Dino of a pomegranate. The profuse perspiration on his forehead and the subsequent stench curled his nose.

 Dino wheeled back to look at the painting, gritting his teeth.

 “Well, look at it. The face is unfocused. What is she looking at? Her eyes are blank. Her hair is thin. The shadows are murky.” 

 Dino rolled his eyes. Giovanni was always searching for something to berate him about in his work. As though he were the Master. As though he were the one most entrusted with completing the important commissions. Dino despised him. He whirled around and faced the squat boy, his hands on his hips. “Oh, I'm sorry. Don't you have some panels to sand? Maybe some tempera to prepare?” Had he forgotten who the Master chose to finish this painting?

 Giovanni snarled. He opened his mouth to say something, but a shadow fell across the painting.

 “ _Magnifico_.”

 The Master. Baldassare Onorati. One of the greatest painters in Florence. The patrons flocked to his doorstep, pleaded with him. It was an honor to apprentice underneath him. It was an even greater honor to be chosen by him to aid in the completion of works, as Baldassare was adamant about doing most of the work himself.

 Baldassare waved his hand over the panel. “The detailing. The softness. Most impressive. Even Raffaello could only dream of capturing it. But try, he will. You can count on it.”  


 Corradino smiled. “ _Grazie, maestro_.” He winked at Giovanni.

 Giovanni narrowed his eyes.

 “I need those panels sanded, Giovanni. Lorenzo d’Medici has waited long enough,” the Master said.

 Giovanni took a deep breath. And exhaled slowly. “Of course, _maestro_.” He walked away.

 Dino returned to the painting and grabbed the brush from the easel.

 A hot breath swept across his ear. A warm form pressed against his back.

 Dino tensed.

 “I want you in my bed this evening.”

 He shivered. A smile, genuine, curled his lips. “ _Ma certo, maestro_.”  


 

 

* * *

 

 

Corradino arched his back, rising from the soft featherbed to press his body against Baldassare’s. Baldo pushed deep within him, moving slowly, thrusting languidly. He felt the oil drip from his ass to the bed. Baldo used so much. He slipped right in, grinding against Dino.

 Baldo thrust once. Then twice. Then stopped, laying his body on Dino’s, pressing him into the bed. “ _Merda_.” Baldo panted. “Are you alright?”

 “ _Sì._ Please, move.” Dino thrust against him, feeling his cock slip further into his ass. His arms wrapped around Baldo’s shoulders, pulling him closer. His weight upon him, a comfort.

 Baldo propped himself on his elbows and pulled his hips back, his cock gliding inside, then pushed forward, thrusting.

 Dino swiveled his hips, trying to get him to hit just _right_ there, and his eyes slammed shut, cutting off his view of the canopy above the bed. He whimpered, his breath expelling in pants, and his hands ran across the flesh of Baldo’s back to his neck, tangling with his curly hair.

 Baldo shivered above him.

 Dino grinned and pulled him down to a kiss, wrapping his tongue with his.

 Baldo moaned against his mouth, his hips stalling. “ _Amore mio_.”  


 Dino wrapped his legs around Baldo’s waist, pulling him closer and deeper, trapping his own cock between their moving bodies. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. “I need—” Dino panted against his lips. He needed him deep within him. “ _Prendi me. Farmi tuo_.”  


 Baldo twisted his hips and Dino moaned into his mouth. Baldo groaned and pulled himself up on his elbows. He slammed into Dino, grinding against his ass, Dino’s cock rubbing against his stomach. Dino cried out. His fingers tightened around his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh, leaving crescent-shaped marks behind.

 Baldo pulled back and the drag of his cock leaving was so sinfully delicious. Then he slammed into him again. And again.

 Dino threw his head back, feeling the tightness in his balls, in his legs and his lower back. “ _Sì. Sì. Sì. Scopa. Sì_. _Ti amo_.”  


 He was close.

 And then Baldo’s weight was gone and his thrusts stopped.

 Dino whimpered and opened his eyes, searching for the other man’s. Baldo sat back on his haunches, Dino’s legs thrown across his, hips on his thighs. His cock still nestled inside.

 “Wha—”

 The older man reached across the bed and grabbed the bottle of oil. He poured some in his hand then, dropping the closed bottle on the bed, wrapped his hand around Dino’s cock, pumping up and down.

 Dino cried out and his hips stuttered. “Oh, God.”

 Baldo laughed. “That’s it,” he panted, his chest heaving. “That’s it, _il mio piccolino_.” (My little one.) He stroked his cock. “Take your pleasure.”

 A long high whine escaped Dino’s lips and his hands scrambled for something to hold, something to give him leverage. He reached above his head and braced against the headboard. He moved his hips, swiveling and gyrating as much as he could, undulating and writhing. Baldo gripped his cock in his hand, caressing it. His thumb brushed across the head and Dino choked, trapping his moan in his throat. His eyes slid closed and he threw his head back.

 Baldo squeezed his cock then let go. He leaned forward and grasped Dino’s head in his hand. “No. Look at me. Don’t look away.”

 Dino whimpered, his heart pounding in his chest. He pried his eyes open and locked with his.

 Baldo’s other hand squeezed his hip. “Yes. That’s it.” Baldo let go of him and sat back again, his eyes locked onto his. He wrapped his strong fingers around Dino’s cock again, squeezing and pumping.

 Dino’s hips twisted against his. His body trembled, his limbs vibrated, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more. He sobbed, his arms aching, his legs shaking. “ _Per favore_.”  


 Baldo groaned and he dragged his hand down his cock, teasing his balls. “What is it, my love?”

 “It’s not—I need more, please.” Dino thrashed his hips against his, feeling his cock inside him.

 Baldo let go of him—Dino keened—and reached for his hands. Dino grasped them, wrapping his fingers around his and Baldo pulled him up, seating him on his lap.

 Wrapping his arms around Baldo’s shoulders, Dino gasped as he slid further in him, as deep as he could.

 Baldo clenched his fingers into the flesh of his hips and he moved him up and down on his cock. “Take what you need,” he whispered, pulling Dino into a wet kiss.

 Dino panted against his lips then pulled away. He braced his legs against the bed and raised himself up, feeling Baldo’s cock slide out of his ass until just the head remained. Then he slammed down onto his hips, gasping and whimpering. Over and over, Dino bounced in his lap, his hand wrapped around his own cock, pumping in rhythm. He rest his forehead against Baldo’s and kept his eyes on his. He was so close.

 Baldo moaned.

 Dino sped up his thrusts, crashing into his hips as his cock rammed further inside. So desperate. He moaned, he whimpered, and his breath came in pants.

 Baldo dropped his head to his chest, gliding his tongue across Dino’s skin, nipping.

 Dino whimpered and his thrusts fumbled.

 He lavished Dino’s nipple with his tongue. His lips circled around it, tweaking it into a tight bud, then his teeth latched on.

 And Dino came, a cry on his lips, slamming down on his hips one last time, shoots of white cum spurting from his cock, hitting them both in the chest and stomach.

 Baldo groaned against his chest, Dino’s nipple slipping from his lips. He reached up and kissed him again, running his tongue across his lips. Then he tightened his grip on Dino’s hips and moved them, propelling Dino backwards onto the mattress. Dino grabbed Baldo’s shoulders and he plunged into him again and again, his skin slapping against his.

 Then Baldo came, his thrust uneven and jerky as he spilled his seed inside Dino. Baldo’s arms collapsed underneath him and he fell against him, resting his forehead against his and took a slow breath. His lips sought his.

 Dino smiled into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Baldo’s shoulders, tightening his legs around his waist, holding him close. He pulled away and laughed. “ _Magnifico, maestro_.” He closed his eyes.

 Baldo chuckled and pulled away, slipping out of him. He rolled off the bed, padding across the room. Then he came back and brushed a soft cloth across Dino’s chest and stomach, cleaning him. The cloth drifted lower and he wiped down his cock then his ass, catching the oil and cum. Then Baldo climbed back into the bed, lying down beside him. “Rest, _il mio colombello_.” (My little dove)

 Dino nodded, his eyes still closed. “ _Va bene. Tienimi al sicuro_.”(Okay. Keep me safe.)  


 “Of course, my love.”

 He fell asleep, his head on Baldo’s chest.

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

  

Corradino’s eyes fluttered open then closed again and he moaned, rubbing his head against the pillow. He threw his arms back and stretched. He dropped his hands to the bed and reached out to the other side. Nothing but cold sheets. He opened his eyes.

 “Baldo?”

 He hummed.

 Dino sat up and saw him at the foot of the bed, the light from the lanterns reflecting off his face. Seated on the small bench, Baldo cradled a notebook and a stick of graphite in his hands. His curly mass of hair patted down and tamed. The scarlet doublet draped by a dark pleated _giornea_. Tight leggings covered his legs. It was a simple outfit. Elegant, even, the way the doublet draped over Baldo’s form. But looking down at his naked body, Dino decided it simply would not do.

 “How long was I asleep?”

 “About an hour or so.”

 “What are you doing?” Dino’s voice cracked, heavy with sleep and hoarse from earlier.

 Baldo smiled, his eyes never leaving his notebook. “Preserving the beauty before me for all to see.”

 He rolled his eyes, chuckling. “I didn’t think you’d want anyone else to see me?” Dino remembered the first time Baldo took him to this bed, the first time he’d been in any man’s bed. It was shortly after he had arrived to his workshop. Two years ago. Knowing life as a painter would be the best his bastard son could hope for, Dino’s father had arranged a deal with Baldassare so he could train and live here with him. And one night, Dino, his heart pounding and his soul crying out, followed Baldo to this room. And cradling him, pressing soft kisses to his forehead, Baldo slid home again and again. Whispers against his skin about how Dino was his. And only his. Returned whispers of how Dino only wanted him.

 Baldo glanced at him and Dino caught the glint in his eyes. The light from the tiny flames. “Ah, perhaps. Certainly, I want you to share no one’s bed but mine.”

 Dino leaned back, propping himself up against the headboard, draping the sheets low around his waist. He shrugged. “I suppose arrangements can be made.” Smiling, he looked away. “Leonardo will be so disappointed though.” He caught Baldo’s eyes with his own and winked.

 Baldo snarled and threw the notebook and graphite on the floor. Jumping on the bed, he snatched his hands and yanked Dino into his lap.

 He laughed.

 “This is _not_ funny,” Baldo sneered. “You know my dislike of the man. So arrogant. So heretical. To cut open the dead—”

 Dino dropped a kiss on his mouth, silencing his words. Pulling away, he smiled. “Please, like I’d be interested in him.” He cupped Baldo’s face in his hands. “You are the only one I want. You are the one I love.” He rested his forehead against his. “ _No mortal thing enthralled these longing eyes. When perfect peace in the fair face I found_.”  

Baldo tightened his grip on Dino’s naked waist and, with the other hand, tangled his fingers in his hair and pulled him into an open-mouthed kiss. He dragged his hand down Dino’s waist and cupped his ass, grinding him against him.

 Dino moaned and felt Baldo’s growing erection against his own. He smiled into his mouth and pulled back. “Besides he’s far too old for me.”  


 Baldassare laughed. One of his hands trailed down Dino’s chest, down his stomach, until he reached his half-limp cock. He stroked it and Dino whimpered, pressing his head against Baldo’s shoulder. “And what about me?” Baldo whispered into his ear. “Some would say I am too old for you.”

 Dino sat up in his lap and reached down to wrap one of his smaller hands around Baldo’s larger one. They pumped his cock together and Dino whimpered. Letting his head fall back, he hummed. “Hmm, _che é vero._ ” (That is true.) Baldo squeezed his hardened cock and Dino gasped. “You are old.”

 He yanked, his grip strong; Dino cried out, thrusting in his hand.

 “But he is _antica_.” Dino bucked into their hands. “And others still would say that you are not right for me because our ‘parts’ are incompatible. They don’t fit.”

 Baldo laughed. One of his fingers on his free hand, rubbed the stretched opening of Dino’s ass. “Hmm, I don’t know. I think we were quite compatible earlier. I think I fit right in. Wouldn’t you agree, little dove?”

 Dino mewled, his mouth falling open. “Yes.” He let go of his hand and draped his arms across Baldo’s shoulders, moving his hips. Dragging his lips across his, Dino whimpered. “ _Sono tutto tuo._ _Solo distinti_. Are you mine?” (I am yours. Only yours.)  


 “Yes.”

 Dino pulled away, climbing off his lap. Lying on the bed, he spread his legs, letting Baldo see the shiny precome dripping from his cock.

 Baldo licked his lips.

 “Well, if you must. Capture me.”

 Baldo laughed and climbed on top of him. He kissed him hard then dragged his lips down his jaw and his neck. Down, down, down. “You’ll be my canvas tonight.” He engulfed Dino’s cock in his hot mouth, swallowing him down, and Dino cried out.

 

 

* * *

 

  

The sun had long since set beyond the Basilica di Santa Marie del Fiore. The apprentices had gone home. And still, Baldassare worked. Sitting by his easel, squinting in the dim light of the candles, he painted.

 Corradino stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, his arms wrapped around his thin waist. He waited. Waited for him to give up for the evening. To set the palette and the brushes down. To stand and come to him. Dino waited for him to kiss him and lead him upstairs to his apartment and to his—their—bedroom.

 But he wasn't going to.

 Baldassare had been distant. Something was different. Something wrong.

 Corradino approached him. He ran his hand across his back. He leaned in. And he kissed the back of Baldassare’s neck.

 Baldassare jerked away from him. “Not now, Corradino.”

 Tears burned the backs of Dino’s eyes. He took a breath. “Did I do something wrong?”

 Baldo glanced up from his painting and looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

 A tear fell. Dino swiped at it, thankful for the moment that Baldassare’s eyes had returned to his work and he didn’t see. “You won’t let me sleep in your bed. We haven’t made love in weeks. You won’t even let me kiss you anymore.”

 Baldo sighed. “Nothing is wrong, _il mio piccolino_.”

 “Then why won’t you look at me?” Corradino couldn’t hold the words back. Not when Baldo was leaning and looking at the brushstrokes of a tree. Not when the background foliage of a painting was more important.

 Baldassare stopped painting and set the palette and brushes on the table next to the easel. He stood and approached him. His brow furrowed and his eyes hard, the small wrinkles stark on his face. For once, Corradino looked at him and saw the forty-two-year-old man he was and not the lover who took him in his bed. He looked down, feeling like a child about to be scolded. And that was true. He _was_ a child.

 Baldo stood in front of him. “Dino, I need to finish this painting. It needs to be completed and delivered to the Medici. I am behind schedule. This has nothing to do with you.” He gestured to the doorway. “Now, try to get some sleep.”

 Dino looked at the painting behind him. He was lying. It was done. Completed. Dino knew this, because he was the one who painted that final wisp of hair on the angel’s head. He was the one who spun the gold of the halo. Baldo lied to him. He had never lied to him before.

 Dino swallowed the lump in his throat and gave him a shaky smile. “Of course, _maestro_. I’m sorry for interrupting you.” He turned and rushed out of the studio.

 He slept alone again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Corradino stumbled into Baldassare’s workshop, grasping a crinkled bit of paper in his shaking hand. Baldassare was on the only one in here, having given the other apprentices the day off. Dino still didn’t know where he stood with him. Three days after Baldo sent him to bed like a child, he still hadn’t touched him. He was still glued to the completed painting.

 But Baldassare was the only one who could explain the letter to him.

 The Master looked up from his painting. He glanced at the paper in Dino’s hand. “What is that?”

 Dino looked at it, his hand held to his parted lips. He scanned the words. Did he read them right? Was he imagining it? “A letter. A request. Commission.”

 Baldo stood, his hand flying to his mouth as a cough erupted from his lips. Clearing his throat, he approached Dino, holding his hand out. “Who is it from?”

 “The Marchesa of Mantua. Isabella d’Este. She wishes for her portrait to be painted.” Dino looked at him.

 He sighed. “I told her—”

 “It’s for me,” Dino whispered. He looked at it again. Then back at him.

 Baldo’s brows furrowed. “You?”

 He held the letter up, his eyes scanning for the words. “She says she has heard tales of the ‘great Corradino di ser Giorgio da Corinaldo of Florence.’ That he weaves magic into his painting, breathes life into the canvas. She wants me to paint her portrait.”

 Baldo smiled; Dino felt his heart flutter. “Well, you must go, my student.”

 He wavered. _My student_. As though they shared a simple master-apprentice relationship. As if Baldo never invited him into his bed. His heart. Staunching the tears, he looked at the letter again. No, he was right. Dino had to go. But— “How did she even hear of me? I’m still an apprentice. _Your_ apprentice.”

 Baldo tilted his head. “I may have written to her about your talents.”

 “When?” When would he have done that?

 He shrugged. “Does it matter? You must take this commission.”

 “But it’s in Mantua.” The words fell from Dino’s lips before he could catch them. Stupid words. Of course, it was.

 He nodded. “Yes.”

 “But I’m still—” He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t be. He still needed him.

 Baldo cupped his face in his hands—Dino felt a rush of hope; the first time he’d touched him in weeks—and he leaned in. “Listen to me, Dino. You no longer need a _maestro_ to teach you. There is nothing more I can teach you. You have surpassed me.” He broke away, his hands dropping from Dino’s face. And he coughed. “You are ready.”

 Dino glanced at the floor. “But what about us? Are we done?”

 Silence reigned for several long minutes. Then: “Yes, I suppose we are.” A whisper.

 He inhaled sharply. His heart broke. “So that’s it then? Two years and now it means nothing?”

 “What do you think it meant?”

 Dino bowed his head. A soft whimper escaped his lips. The letter hung loosely in his hand, forgotten. What did he think it meant? “Something. Something more. _Senza timore e per sempre_. That's what you said. Remember?” Was it a lie? Was all of it a trick?

 Baldo smiled at him and gave a small shake of his head. “I said what I needed to say to get you underneath me. You think you're the only boy I've had between my sheets? You boys always come into my workshop expecting to become master painters and most of you are willing to do whatever it takes to get there.”

 Dino’s stomach curled and he swallowed the thick lump in his throat. His tears fell and he made no effort to hide them. Baldo already thought he was a child. What difference would it make? “So what? Letting you fuck me was the payment for apprenticing with you? Who else shared your cock? Giovanni? Cosimo? Piero? Did you take them in the dark corners of your shop? Because you sure as hell didn’t bring them to your bed. I would have known.” A sob rushed out of him and he choked on it.

 Baldassare stood straight. His eyes narrowed. “That’s enough!”

 Corradino fell silent, his arms wrapped around himself, his head shaking. Baldassare became a blurry haze behind his wet eyes. 

 He sighed. “You were—you _are_ magnificent, Corradino. A true painter. I taught you what you needed to know. And you gave me what I needed. And you now have a commission with the Marchesa of Mantua. Your career will know no bounds. You're welcome.”

 Corradino’s cheeks flushed. His body trembled. “ _Fottiti._ ” (Fuck you.) He spun around, a harsh sob escaping his mouth, and ran. He didn’t turn to look when Baldassare coughed and hacked. It wasn’t his place to care anymore.

 He left for Mantua that night, his belongings packed in a small trunk.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two years. It was two years ago when Corradino walked out of this place, with his heart shattered and bleeding. Two years of continued commission. Of Isabella d’Este, so taken with the first portrait he had painted, she ordered another one. And another one. And a painting—Venus and Eros—for her studiolo.

 Two years later and his heart was still that unhealed patchwork of raw mangled pieces he tried so desperately to stitch back together. But no amount of rich pigments dancing across a canvas, no number of nights in the courtiers’ beds could pierce and mend the shattered stones.

 And now, opening the door and stepping back in here, a folded letter in his hand, his heart raced. His fingers tingled and sweat ran down his brow. A letter requesting him here. Baldassare hadn't contacted him since he left and now Dino was back because _he_ had asked for it. Why? Would he attempt to persuade Dino into his bed again?

 No, he wasn’t a child anymore. He hadn’t been since that night. He wasn’t going to fall for it again. And he hadn’t. He knew now what it meant when they would invite him to their beds. And he went willingly. And he had fun.

 But he would not allow himself more than that.

 He steeled himself. “Baldassare?”

 Silence.

Corradino swallowed and whispered, “Baldo?” Saying the name only he was allowed to say. Or was he the only one allowed? He didn’t know. A soft pang in his heart. Flushed cheeks. No, it wasn’t his place to know.

 There was still nothing but silence.

 “ _Maestro_?”

 When he had left to go to Mantua, paintings and sculptures and sketches, paints and panels filled the shop to the brim. Now, it was alarmingly bare. Where did Baldassare’s work go? Where was he?

 The door opened behind him.

 Corradino spun around. Was it him?

 No.

 A man he’d never seen before.

 “You shouldn’t be in here, _signor_.” The man raised his brows and his hand tightened on the door handle, his knuckles whitening.

 “I’m sorry. I was asked to come here. But I think there’s been some kind of mistake. Where’s the man who owns this shop? Where’s Baldassare Onorati?”

 “Baldassare Onorati? Oh, yes, the painter.” The man closed the door.

 Corradino nodded. “Yes, the painter. Where is he? He was the one who summoned me here.”

 “Ah, that would be impossible, sir.”

 “What are you talking about?”

 “He died. Nearly two years ago.”

 His body went cold. His heart stopped. “Wha-what?”

 “I’m sorry. You didn’t know?”

 His vision blurred. A wave of vertigo slammed into him and he wavered on his feet. “No.”

 “What’s your name, son?” the man asked.

 “Corradino.” He swallowed thickly. “Corradino di ser Giorgio da Corinaldo.”

 “Well, it would seem Signor Onorati wanted you to have this place.” He tossed Corradino a set of keys that he caught in one hand.

 He looked at them. “What?”

 “When he died, Signor Onorati left a will. I was charged with carrying out his final wishes.” He reached into his small pouch strapped around his waist and pulled out a sealed letter. “He wanted you to have this in the event of your return.”

 Corradino reached out and took the letter with trembling hand. “ _Grazie_.”

 The man nodded farewell and left.

 Corradino closed the door behind him then fell against it, sagging and sliding to the floor. He broke the wax seal on letter—his seal—and opened it. He swiped at his wet eyes. And read.

 

* * *

 

  _My dearest little dove,_

_If you're reading this, then I fear the worse has come to pass. I can only pray that you escaped the same fate as I. But you are young. And strong._

_Yes, I knew of my fate when I sent you to Mantua._

_Yes, I lied to you. I let you believe a horrific and painful lie about me. About us. I’m so terribly sorry. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you have difficulty believing me. These are just words scratched onto a scrap of parchment. How can they adequately capture the way my heart broke to see you in such pain? To know that it was I and I alone that had caused it?_

_You are my dove. My love._

_You are my soul._

_But I was a dying man. And I couldn’t trap you with someone who soon be nothing more than a corpse. I had already kept you for far too long. You surpassed me in skill a long time ago. But I kept you because I was afraid you would never return. I was a selfish man._

_And then I learned I was dying._

_I had to keep you safe._

_But we had already committed so much to each other that I knew you would never leave. Not of your own accord._

_So I lied._

_I do not apologize for keeping you safe. But I regret hurting you._

_This place is yours._

_I promised you forever. I wish I could have given it to you._

_Perhaps we will meet again. In another lifetime. Souls like ours must always seek one another. We will not be apart forever._

_My love for you was real. Know that. The moment you, a mere boy of fifteen, walked into my shop with your wide eyes and your beautiful face, I was in love. I could only hope an angel like you would love an old man like me._

  

_Never forget my love and please forgive me,_

_Baldo_

  

* * *

 

 

The letter fell from Dino’s hands, crumpled. A wail erupted from his throat and he stood. The tears crashed through him. He grabbed the nearest empty easel and threw it. But he felt no satisfaction in watching the thin wood splinter and shatter. Another one. And another. Until there was nothing but shattered frames all around him.

 He fell to his knees, sobs wracking his body.

 

  

Eventually, Corradino managed to pick himself up and he did continue his work with great success, housing himself in Baldo’s workshop. But he never took on any apprentices and he never let anyone else in his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem "Kurt" cited is by Michelangelo.


	7. 1692, Cuthbert and Benjamin

 

Cuthbert was a misfit. An outcast. A man who lived on the fringes of Salem. Cuthbert never attended church. He didn’t believe. He didn’t believe in God. And he didn’t believe in the Devil. He was disliked. He was shunned. Shunned by all but one man. A man living with the noose of Puritanical life wrapped around his neck, who secretly sought to escape with Cuthbert.

 And in May 1692, Ann Putnam and her circle of friends accused Cuthbert of witchcraft, of cavorting with the Devil. And when the authorities arrived at his little hut on the outside of town, arrest warrant in hand, they discovered Cuthbert engaged in devious acts of a sexual nature with one Mr. Benjamin Byles, the nephew of Cotton Mather. Of course, they believed the accusations then. And they believed the good Reverend’s nephew had lost his way. Right into the arms of that wretched warlock.

 Benjamin was arrested as well.

 Cuthbert saved Benjamin from capital punishment. He confessed to witchcraft. He stated that the Devil took him over and forced him to do unspeakable acts to the Reverend’s nephew. Benjamin Byles was one of his victims.

 Benjamin Byles was an innocent.

_Let him go._

 

 

 Benjamin stood next to his uncle, tears blurring his vision, as he watched the noose placed on Cuthbert’s neck. Benjamin collapsed when the trap door opened and Cuthbert fell through, his neck snapping.

 His final words to Cuthbert, before the door was kicked in and they were torn apart? “I love you and I’m not afraid of what they say. We’re forever.”

 Benjamin left Massachusetts and was never heard from again.


	8. 1776, Curt and Bryce

 

 

BOOM!

 Wood splintered. Men yelled.

 The tent’s thin white cloth walls shook and Curt gasped, flinching. His hand slipped, the saw catching in the bone.

 And the man on the table screamed, his cry muffled by the stick in his mouth.

 “Hold him down!” Curt yelled to the surgeon mates.

 Their grips tightened on John’s shoulders and legs, the knuckles of their hands whitened.

 Curt braced himself against the ground, digging his boots into the loose soil. Clutching John’s dead forearm, he leaned forward, placing his weight behind the saw. Sweat dripped from his brow, landing on the man’s arm.

 John tensed, he seized, he screamed.

 And then the arm separated from John’s body.

 Curt, covered in blood and sweat and trembling with adrenaline, turned to the tray next to the table and set the arm aside. He looked at the patient.

 Bluish lips. Closed eyes. Shallow breath.

 Shock. He was in shock.

 But Curt couldn’t do anything about it. Not yet. He dropped the bloodied saw on the tray next to the man’s arm. He leaned forward, looking at the arteries and crooked needles holding the man’s skin apart. He took the arteries in his fingers—John’s flesh squelched and blood oozed and Curt fought back a wince—and buried them into the man’s muscles. He removed the needles holding the skin in place, throwing them in the tray. He folded the skin flap over and stood. He grabbed a clean linen cloth, intent on wrapping the stump.

 The tent’s flap opened and two more assistants rushed in, dragging a soldier between them. The setting sun’s dying light pierced the inside of the tent, momentarily blinding Curt. The flaps fell closed and Curt shook his head, trying to clear the spots in his eyes. He saw the assistants lead the newest injured man to a cot in the corner. He caught a glimpse of dark curly hair. And his stomach clenched. It was improbable that the man was someone he knew. Someone he left behind, packing his trunk and leaving like a thief in the night. That was in Philadelphia. He was in New York. He hadn’t been home in years. But still, Curt wondered. Where was he? Was he doing well? Did he understand why Curt did what he did?

 “Sir! His heart’s stopped.”

 His ill-time reverie broken, Curt jumped, dropped the cloth and climbed onto the table, straddling John. Leaning back, he brought his hand up then swung it forward, smashing into the man’s face.

 John’s head flew to the side, but otherwise, he remained still.

 Curt curled his fingers into a fist and slammed it against the man’s chest. “John!” he shouted. “Don’t do this!” He slapped John again.

  

He reared back and pounded on John’s chest.

 And again.

 And again.

 Another explosion.

 A gunshot.

 He panted, harsh breaths rushing from his lips. Sweat poured from his brow.

 It was useless.

 John was dead.

 A choked sigh. He closed his eyes and climbed off the soldier. He brought a shaky hand to his forehead and swiped the sweat away. He took a breath. “He’s gone.” He waved his hand toward the tent’s opening. “Just—just go on. I’ll take care of this.”

 The two assistants nodded and turned away.

 Curt reached down at John’s feet and pulled the white sheet up, covering his body up to his chest. “I’m truly sorry, friend.”

 A soft moan across the tent.

 He turned. The man lay on a cot. The one he hadn’t tended to yet. Brought in when he was busy with John’s amputation. The dark blue jacket, stained purple with his dried blood, draped over the sides of the small cot, unbuttoned. The white shirt had been torn away and in its place, bloodied bandages wrapped around his abdomen.

 Another explosion outside.

 Curt sighed. That man would die, too. The musket injury had sealed his fate. His assistant knew what to do. Knew it was pointless and they could only make the man comfortable.

 The man coughed, turning his head towards him.

 Curt squinted against the weak light of the candles that’d been lit shortly before the amputation began. The thick eyebrows. Tanned skin. Was it? He took a deep breath. No. It couldn’t be.

 “Is anyone there?” the man asked.

 The man was dying. Curt knew that. He couldn’t let the man die alone. No matter who he was. He looked down at himself. Covered in blood. He tore the apron off and tossed it aside. He strode across the tent and knelt by the man.

 The man opened his eyes. Eyes Curt hadn’t seen in years.

 He gasped. It’d been years, but he could never forget him. “Bryce?”

 Bryce’s amber eyes met his and he smiled. “There you are. My angel.” He jerked his head away, coughing. Blood foamed at his lips. He cried out against the pain and reached out.

 Curt took his hand.

 “I’ve been looking for you.” Bryce trembled, his body wracked with pain.

 Tears flooded Curt’s eyes. He tried to smile but his lips trembled. “Oh, you have?”

 Bryce closed his eyes and nodded. “Forever.” He groaned, his free hand clenching at his abdomen.

 Curt looked at his bandages. And a tear fell. “I’ve missed you.”

 Bryce coughed again. “Me, too.”

 Curt reached up and brushed Bryce’s hair from his sweaty sticky brow. “Who would have thought that we’d both end up here?”

 Musket fire sounded.

 “Like we were meant to be together,” Bryce whispered.

 “You always did say that.”

 Bryce closed his eyes. “Do you believe me now?”

 Curt shook his head and brought Bryce’s hand up to his mouth. He kissed the back of his hand. “I believe God has a horrible sense of humor. To bring us back together, here and now. When you’re—”

 Bryce squeezed his hand. “Maybe he knew I would need you.”

 “Or He’s punishing us. Punishing me.”

 Bryce coughed. “He wouldn’t.”

 Curt sighed, tightening his grip on his hand. “I don’t know about that.” He looked away. “I ran away from you and broke your heart, and mine, and He brought you to me when you’re—” He broke off, unable to finish.

 “Did we at least win?”

 Curt chuckled, the small laugh wet behind his tears. He looked through the small crack of the tent’s flaps. “I think General Washington’s lost this one.”

 Bryce winced. He wheezed. “Damn.”

 A tear fell from Curt’s eye and he swiped at it. “I’m sorry.”

 Bryce whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. He was silent for a moment then breathed, “Why?”

 “Because I left all those years ago for King’s College and didn’t tell you.”

 He shook his head once, resting against the flat pillow. His remained closed. He took another labored breath. “I don’t blame you for that.” He wheezed. “You were always destined for great things.”

 Curt shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered. He looked at Bryce’s bloodied bandages again. If he was great, if he was destined for these things, why could he only hold Bryce’s hand and watch him die? “It didn’t matter in the end.” It didn’t matter that Curt left him behind and made a life for himself. A name. “Because despite all that training, I can’t save you.”

 “Not your fault.” He cried out. Beads of sweat rolled down his face. He trembled. “We’ll just have to keep trying.” Tears fell from his closed eyes and he tightened his grip on Curt’s hand. “It hurts.”

 Curt leaned close, resting his forehead against his. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 Bryce exhaled shakily. “I love you.”

 He pressed a light kiss against Bryce’s chapped lips. “I love you, too. I still do.”

 Bryce writhed in pain. He moaned, his hands clenching. He exhaled.

 And that was it.

 Curt sat up, his grip on Bryce’s still hand loosening. He felt the familiar burn of tears. But he couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. He was needed. When the war was over, he could. He stood and grabbed the all too familiar white sheet at the foot of the cot. He draped the cloth across Bryce’s body. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Bryce’s forehead then covered his still face with the sheet. “I hope you’re right, my love, and we’ll see each other again.”

 Commotion sounded outside the tent. Then two of his assistants rushed in, clutching a soldier between them. Another injury.

 He looked down at Bryce’s covered body one last time.

 Later. He would mourn later.

 He rushed forward, helping lead the man to the table.


	9. 1878, Curtis and Devin Blaine, Earl of Dalton

 

Curtis, valet to the Duke’s eldest son, pulled the wardrobe door open and reached in for the tailcoat. He took it from the hanger and approached Lord Devin Blaine as he stood in front of the mirror.

 Devin adjusted his tie. He fiddled with his cuffs.

 Curtis held the jacket open behind him.

 The young Lord reached behind him and Curtis slipped the jacket onto his arms, draping it across his shoulders.

 Lord Devin sighed. “I don’t understand why my father is insisting on white tie for tonight.”

 Curtis swiped his hands across Lord Devin’s shoulders, straightening the jacket’s lines, erasing the wrinkles. “Perhaps he wishes to impress the Earl and his daughter.” Of course, that was not true. The Duke had no need to impress anyone.

 Lord Devin turned around and Curtis reached for the jacket’s collar, tugging it straight.

 “Do you like her, Curtis?”

 His brows rose. That was an unusual question for him to ask. “Lady Edith?”

 Lord Devin nodded. “Do you?”

 “She seems to be nice enough, my Lord. I have not heard any of the staff say an unkind word against her, if that’s what you’re asking.” Curtis turned away and reached for the Lord’s morning dress, laid out on the bed.

 “I think my father means for me to ask for her hand in marriage. He has certainly implied it enough this entire week.”

 Curtis froze, his hand stilling on the waistcoat. He closed his eyes and took a calming breath. “Of course, my Lord. It would be a fine match.” It would be. 

 “Now, why don’t I think you mean that?”

 Curtis’ heart pounded in his chest. He refused to look at him. It wasn’t his place. He gave a quick shake of his head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, my Lord.”

 A hand grazed the small of his back—he jumped—and skirted across his body to wrap around his waist. “Curtis.”

 “Yes, my Lord?”

 “Turn around. Look at me.”

 Curtis did, twisting in his grasp. He met his gaze.

 “Say the word and I’ll tell my father I won’t do it.”

 Curtis wanted to. It was on the tip of his tongue. What they had, it wasn’t meant to last. No matter the emotions. Curtis knew this going in. He knew he would ultimately end up with a broken heart, but he couldn’t stay away. “You know I can’t,” he whispered.

 Lord Devin leaned in.

 Curtis’ eyes drifted closed and he tilted his head.

 And the door opened, the latch echoing, loud and sharp, in the quiet room.

 The two men jumped apart and looked in the doorway.

 It was Lord Devin’s mother.

 Curtis held his breath. His frantic heartbeat echoing in his ears. He needed out. He stepped around Lord Devin. “If you’ll excuse me.” He gave a polite nod of his head and passed Lady Dalton through the door. “Good evening, my Lady.”

 She smiled stiffly. “Curtis.”

 He trotted down the hall.

  

* * *

 

Curtis sat at the table in the servant’s hall, a cup of tea set out in front of him and the newspaper in his hand. A brief moment of respite from his duties. When the dinner party assembled upstairs, there was no need for him.

 “Did you hear about the _Eurydice_?” Mary, the Duchess’ lady’s maid, demanded as she entered the room, sitting across to him. She scooted her chair closer, leaning towards him.

 Curtis dropped the top part of the newspaper, letting it fold over to show her the headline. “THE LOSS OF THE EURYDICE” emblazoned across the top of the page. He had just started to read the story.

 “Isn’t it just horrible?” She shivered. “All but two hands lost. Such a tragedy.”

 “Yes.” Curtis sighed, setting _The Times_ on the table. There was no longer a need to read the story. Of course not. Not with Mary here now.

 “What do you think happened?”

 “I...think it’s too early to tell right now.”

 Mr. Hodges, the butler, entered the room.

 Mary and Curtis stood.

 “Ah, there you are, Curtis.”

 “Yes, sir?”

 “Lord Devin wasn’t feeling well and has decided to retire early tonight. He requested you help him undress for the evening.”

 He nodded. “Of course, Mr. Hodges.” Turning to Mary, Curtis tilted his head. “Good evening, Mary.”

 She smiled. “You, too.”

 He climbed the stairs of the great house, heading to Lord Devin’s bedroom. His knuckles rapped softly on the door and he opened it. “Are you not feeling well?” He stepped into the dark room, closing the door. “My Lord?”

 Two hands grabbed Curtis by the shoulders and pushed him against the door. His startled cry muffled by a kiss. “I’ve been wanting to do this all night. Do you know how difficult it is to focus on the boring meaningless drivel of the Earl when all I can think about is kissing you?” Lord Devin grabbed the waistband of Curtis’ trousers and unfastened them. He shoved them down his thighs and grabbed Curtis’ cock, squeezing and stroking.

 Curtis moaned and thrust against his hand. He grabbed the sides of Devin’s face and pulled him closer.

 Devin broke the kiss, pulling away and trailing his mouth across Curtis’ jaw and down his neck. Letting go of his cock—Curtis whimpered—he loosened Curtis’ tie then unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, pushing them back. Devin dropped his mouth back to his neck, spreading open-mouthed kisses on his jugular, suckling. He grabbed Curtis’ cock again.

 Curtis panted, throwing his head back and clinging to Devin’s shoulders. He whimpered, “Oh, God.”

 Devin withdrew from him and pushed his shirt, jacket and waistcoat off his shoulders, letting them cascade to the floor at Curtis’ feet. He leaned into him and trailed kisses down Curtis’ chest.

 Curtis dropped his hands against Devin’s head, digging his fingers into his hair.

 Devin twirled his tongue around one of his nipples, teasing it.

 He cried out and brought a leg up, wrapping it loosely around Devin’s waist, dragging his hips closer to his. He tried to find friction, thrusting against Devin’s hard covered cock. He reached for the bowtie around Devin’s neck and pulled it loose, slipping it from his collar and throwing it aside. He shoved his tails off his shoulders and grabbed the bottom of Devin’s shirt and pulled it free from his trousers. Curtis unbuttoned it and pushed it off his body.

 Devin collapsed against him again, skin against skin, his lips and tongue darting across his chest.

 Curtis gasped. “My Lord!”

 Lord Devin pulled away. “‘My Lord?’ What did I tell you—”

 Curtis smirked. “Don’t pretend this doesn’t excite you. The illicit affair between lord and servant.” He squeezed Devin’s thickening cock through his trousers. “We both know it’s true.”

 Devin moaned, thrusting into Curtis’ grip. He dragged his lips across his. “But you know it’s more than that, right? You know you mean more than that.”

 Curtis softened his gaze, smiling. “Of course, I know.”

 Devin looked at him with hooded eyes. “I’m just—God, I missed you.”

 He nodded. “Too long. Been too long.” He pulled Devin’s face to his, dropping his lips to his.

 Devin pulled away and dropped to his knees in front of him. He trailed kisses down Curtis’ abdomen. He pushed his trousers further down his legs. When they caught on Curtis’ shoes, Devin bent down and untied the laces to his shoes, helping him out of them. Once they were removed, the pants disappeared, too.

 Curtis watched him, his chest heaving with his breaths.

 Devin leaned forward and grabbed his cock again. Curtis moaned and whimpered when he felt Devin’s mouth engulf him, taking him deep.

 “Oh!” Curtis cried.

 Devin pulled off and looked at him, smiling. “Shh. Don’t want anyone to hear.” He took Curtis into his mouth again.

 Curtis groaned, biting his lips and trying to stay silent. He grabbed Devin’s hair and fought against thrusting. But Devin brought his hands to his ass, pushing him forward, encouraging him. Curtis moaned and thrust his cock deeper into Devin’s throat. He shivered and arched his back, pressing his shoulders into the wall behind him. Devin cupped his balls and bobbed his head faster.

 “Devin, I'm going to—”

 Devin pulled off his cock, letting it bob against his mouth. “Come for me.” He wrapped his lips around him again.

 “No.” Curtis shook his head.

 He stopped. “What’s wrong?”

 “I want to—I want you. I want to come inside you.”

 He smiled, nodding. He gave Curtis’ cock one final suck, swallowing around him.

 Curtis sagged against the wall, breathing harshly, and Devin pulled off him, standing, wrapping his arms around his waist. He kissed Curtis sweetly, a hand cupping his cheek.

 Curtis moaned against his mouth.

 Devin pulled back, reaching for Curtis’ hand. He wrapped his fingers around his and tugged. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ll let you relax and enjoy.”

 “But—”

 “I know Mr. Hodges keeps you on your feet for long hours. Let me help you relax.”

 Curtis nodded and Devin pulled him away from the door and spun them around, guiding him toward his bed, his lips on his. Curtis caught a glimpse of the scattered evening’s attire on the floor. He should pick it up. The wrinkles. The dirt.

 “Wait—” Curtis reached out.

 Devin grabbed his shoulders and pushed him.

 Curtis fell against the mattress.

 Devin crawled on the bed and hovered over him. “Now, what did I say?” Another deep kiss and he stood. Curtis watched him through half-closed eyes, leaning back on his elbows. Devin shed the rest of his clothing, and, after moving across the room to his vanity, he grabbed a bottle of olive oil from a closed drawer.

 Curtis laughed. “You have some explaining to do to Ms. O’Brien. She’s been ransacking her kitchen for days now looking for that.”

 Devin smirked. “I’ll buy her some more.” He crawled on the bed, slinking like a predator. He straddled Curtis’ hips. He opened the bottle and poured some of the oil on his fingers. He leaned over Curtis, kissing him. Devin gasped against his lips and his arm moved behind him, his fingers working himself open. Curtis groaned as he watched Devin ready himself for him. First one finger then two. Then three. Twisting them. Stretching himself open.

 “I’m ready,” Devin moaned. He sat up and grasped Curtis’ cock, slicking it with more of the olive oil. Curtis whimpered, thrusting into his touch. Devin rose above him and sunk down on his cock. Moaning and running his hands down his chest, Devin let him slip inch by agonizing inch further inside until he was buried completely.

 Devin dragged his hips up and down, searching for a rhythm. Curtis grasped his hips, his fingertips digging into the strong muscle. Devin gasped, his breathing coming harshly, and leaned forward, bringing his hands to the sides of Curtis’ head. He kissed him as he moved up and down on his cock.

 Curtis cupped the back of Devin’s neck, pulling him closer, groaning. His upward thrusts increased. Devin moaned into his mouth. Curtis bucked his hips and flipped their positions, shoving Devin into the mattress. His thrusts grew erratic. He wrapped his hand around Devin’s cock, stroking him as he increased his own movements.

 Devin clung to him, digging his fingernails into his back, his breath escaping in harsh gasps. He squeezed his eyes closed, whimpering. Curtis thrust into him roughly, shoving him further and further up the mattress. His fingers dug into his hips.

 Devin threw his head back. Keened.

 Curtis leaned over him, resting his forehead against his. “I love you.” A deep thrust.

 Devin kissed him, his arms wrapped around his shoulders. “Love you, too.” He pulled away, shuddering. “Oh, God, I’m close.”

 Bracing himself on the bed, Curtis sped up, slamming into him again and again. Devin’s hand grasped his own cock and he stroked himself in time with Curtis’ movements.

 A final twist of his hips and Devin came, spilling his seed between them and onto his stomach, arching his back and pressing his head further back into the mattress. He tightened his fingers around Curtis’ shoulders, gasping his name.

 Curtis moaned. A deep thrust. Another one. Twice. Then he came, too, collapsing against him. He stayed pressed against him for a moment. A quick glance at the closed door and the scattered clothing on the floor and he was slapped with the reality of their situation. He couldn’t stay. It was improper. It would start a scandal. He couldn’t let that happen to Devin.

 He dropped a final kiss on Devin’s mouth and pulled away, his cock slipping out of Devin’s body. He moved to stand but Devin reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him back to the bed.

 “My Lord—” Curtis started but Devin kissed him again.

  “Stay,” Devin whispered against his mouth.

 “I can’t.”

 “Yes, you can. They’ll be down there for several more hours. I want you. I need you.”

 Curtis met his eyes. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But he nodded. “Give me a few minutes,” he whispered, pulling Devin back in for another kiss.

 

 

* * *

 

Devin pressed Curtis forward until he lay flat on his stomach, feeling the oil run down his crack and Devin’s body pressing against his. 

 “Fast. We’re running out of time,” Curtis whispered, his body trembling.

 Devin rammed into him without warning and he cried out, arching his back slightly, the back of his head against Devin’s shoulder. He groaned in Curtis’ ear, his breath hot against his cheek. He thrust into him deeply and with abandon. 

 Curtis could not control his moans and his cries. Devin felt amazing, his thick cock thrusting deep within him. He wanted to participate, to thrust back. But he couldn’t. Devin’s hips pinned his to the soft mattress and Curtis was at his mercy, his cock grinding into the sheets with each thrust. 

 Devin pressed forward, running his hands along Curtis’ arms until he reached his hands, gripping them tightly. Curtis felt him completely, all around him and inside. He keened. Loudly. 

 Devin pushed into him further, his deep thrusts pulling cries from his lips. And Curtis couldn’t move against him. He could only cry out, press his head against his shoulder, squeeze his hands.

 A sharp deep thrust hit the right spot and Curtis cried out. His body tensed. 

 He whimpered. 

 And he came again, overwhelmed with Devin’s cock moving inside and his body pressed along the length of his, cresting for the second time this evening.

 Devin was quick to follow, thrusting wildly a few more times, then collapsing against him. Curtis sagged against the mattress and Devin settled on top of him, resting on his elbows and his forehead against the back of Curtis’ head and breathing harshly.

 Curtis pressed his forehead against the pillow beneath him, closing his eyes. His breathing slowly returned to normal.

 Devin kissed his shoulders and the back of his neck. He shifted off of him, slipping out and collapsing next to him. He brought Curtis closer, wrapping an arm around his waist. “I love you.”

 “I love you, too.” Curtis kissed his mouth.

 “I don’t want to marry her.”

 Curtis’ heart swelled painfully in his chest and he propped himself up on his elbow to look at him. “Devin—”

 “I want to run away with you. I want to live my life with you, waking up every day to see you in my bed, sharing your life with me.”

 Curtis smiled sadly. “We can’t.” He reached up and brushed a loose curl from Devin’s forehead. “You are an Earl. The heir to your father’s estate and fortune. You have a duty to uphold. The scandal, the—”

 Devin’s eyes closed. “I know. I’m just—I’m tired of hiding you. Us. I feel like we’ve been trying to be together for eternity and no one will let us. I’m tired of fighting. I’m—”

 Curtis kissed him. “I know.”

 Devin stifled a yawn.

 “Go to sleep.”

 

* * *

Curtis leaned over and pressed a kiss against his forehead.

 Devin rolled into his side, the sheet falling low on his naked hip. “Stay,” he mumbled, voice thick with impending sleep.

 He sighed. Decorum and propriety. Curtis shouldn’t still be here. “You know I can’t. I’ve already been here too long.”

 He grumbled and nodded into his pillow.

 Curtis grabbed his jacket and waistcoat from the floor. He headed to the door.

 “I wish I could marry you.”

 Curtis froze. He turned around, the words ‘me, too’ on his tongue, but Devin had rolled over, already asleep. Curtis smiled. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He couldn’t. They couldn’t. For hundreds of reasons. Status. Class. The law.

 Curtis sighed and put his waistcoat on. Jacket on arm, he opened the door and stepped out.

 The hall was dark. The dinner party was over. Had been for hours. And he was just now leaving.

 A gasp.

 Curtis jerked his head towards the sound.

 Blaine’s mother. Dressed in her evening attire. Not everyone had retired for the night.

 A coldness swept over his body. His fingers tingled. His heart raced. Oh, no. Oh, God, no.

 He rushed in the opposite direction, towards the back stairs.

 Behind him, Curtis heard the door swing open again and her exclamation of horror.

 It was over.

 He knew it was over.

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

Curtis sat in the chair, head down, staring at the floor. He couldn’t look up. He couldn’t stand the look of disgust in Mr. Hodges eyes. He knew. He knew what Lady Dalton saw. How many more of them knew?

 The door opened. And Lord Devin entered. Mr. Hodges stood from his desk, the legs of his chair screeching across the worn wooden floor.

 Curtis fought a sigh of relief. He had feared the Duke or the Duchess would deal with him.

 “Thank you, Mr. Hodges. May I please speak with Curtis here in private?”

 Curtis looked at him. He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back. Not even glancing in his direction.

 “Is that wise, my Lord? He attacked—”

 “That’s enough!” Lord Devin sighed. “I apologize, Mr. Hodges. I do not mean to be stern. However, I will be fine. He will not hurt me.”

 “Sir—”

 “Please, leave.”

 Mr. Hodges looked at Curtis, sneered, then left, closing the door behind him.

 Curtis stood, clasping his shaking hands together. Tears burned the backs of his eyes. They thought he’d attacked Devin? They thought he was a monster? Was that the story being told? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

 Devin shook his head. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I asked you to stay.”

 Curtis glanced down then back at him. “When are they coming?”

 “Who?”

 He laughed but it caught on a sob. “The police. This—” Curtis waved his arm in the empty space between them. “—is against the law, you know that. But you’re safe. The great house would not be able to shake the scandal. Not after your sister married the baker.”

 Devin shook his head. “No one’s called the police. And no one other than us, my mother and Mr. Hodges even know about this.”

 A tear fell and Curtis swiped at it. Relief swept across his body. “Okay. But I’m sacked, aren’t I?”

 Devin closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do.”

 Curtis buried his face in his hands, sobbing. “I’m never going to find another job. Mr. Hodges will never give me a good reference.”

 Devin grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close. “Yes, he will.” He kissed his forehead; Curtis closed his eyes, leaning against him. “I promise you that.”

 “How?”

 He pulled away, dropping his hands from Curtis. He took a breath. “It...It was one of the stipulations I gave to my mother. Just as I did about the police.”

 Curtis squinted his eyes and shook his head. “Stipulation for what?”

 He turned away. “Tomorrow night, I will ask for the Earl’s daughter’s hand in marriage.”

 The laughter that erupted from Curtis quickly turned into a sob. “So that’s it, then. This is over. This is the end.” He wrapped his arms around himself. He never expected it to come so soon.

 Devin turned back to face him, shaking his head. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “Think of this not as the end, but a new chapter. The fight is not yet over. This is a new challenge we must overcome if we are to be together—”

 “Fearlessly and forever?” Curtis whispered. Devin said that him before when he entered the London Season and talk spread among the great houses about how he was looking for a wife. He had told Curtis he wasn’t. That he didn’t want a wife. That he was only doing what he needed to do to appease his parents, that he wanted them to be together forever. And fearlessly. Why must they always fight?

 Devin smiled and a tear fell. “Yes. Exactly.”

 Forever. How could it be forever? It wasn’t. “But how can—will we ever see each other again?” Curtis sniffled.

 “Love is forever, right? _Our_ love is forever.”

 He spoke with such conviction, determination. Curtis had to believe him. He needed to. He nodded.

 Devin came back to him, cupping his face with his hands. “Well then, it must extend beyond this life. Perhaps even before it. Otherwise it wasn’t meant to last forever, was it?”

 “No.” Curtis kissed him, breathing in his scent. He moaned against his lips and he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against his. “I love you.”

 “I’m sorry.” Devin’s voice cracked.

 “It’s not your fault.” Curtis pulled away from him and walked to the door. He grabbed the handle then paused. “Have an amazing life. Marry the Earl’s daughter. Have beautiful children together. As you should.” He would pretend his heart still beat in his chest, that it wasn’t lying shattered in pieces on the ground.

 Devin took a step forward, his hand out. Then he stopped, opening his mouth. “Please.”

 Curtis looked at him.

 Devin shrugged. “Maybe—” He paused. “Maybe this doesn’t have to end. Maybe I can pull a few strings and get you a job there. With the Earl. We’d be able to see each other. We wouldn’t have to give anything up.”

 Curtis shook his head. “Don’t.”

 “Why not?”

 Curtis looked away. “I can’t be the…” He sobbed. “I can’t be your kept man or dirty secret. Whatever you want to call me. Sneaking around and—”

 “Curtis.”

 He shook his head. “Please, don’t. If we have to do this, then let’s do it this way.” Curtis took a deep shaky breath and closed his eyes. “We don’t see each other again. Not after I leave this room. And if you’re right, it’ll only be for this life and then we’ll try again.” He opened his eyes and met Devin’s wet ones. “I—I guess I’m not strong enough to watch you go to her bed every night. I wish I could be. But that’s not me. I’m sorry. This would have happened anyway. You know it would have. We just—it just happened sooner than anticipated.”

 Devin nodded, sniffling back tears. “All right. If that’s what you want—”

 Curtis wanted to scream, but his voice was stuck in his throat. He whispered, “It’s not.” He swallowed back his tears. “I want to spend my life with you. But I can’t.”

 “Can—can I kiss you?” Devin looked down then back at him. “One last time? Can you give me that? Please?”

 Curtis nodded. He couldn’t say ‘no.’

 Devin rushed across the small room and gathered him in his arms. His lips seized Curtis’, swallowing his gasp. Curtis opened his lips and he deepened the kiss.

 Curtis pulled away and pressed himself against the closed door. “Goodb—”

 Devin pressed a finger to his mouth. “Don’t say it.”

 Curtis shook his head. “Goodbye,” he choked. He turned around and opened the door.

 

 

Curtis never saw Lord Devin Blaine again.


	10. 1945, Kurt and 20609

 

_BANG_!

_Ker-plunt_.

 A body fell to the ground.

 Kurt stared past the guards and the kapos and the workers—workers, if only that were true—and out the fence, clenching his rifle in his hands, his knuckles whitened. He gazed at the snow-covered ground and the frost-tipped trees. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look down the line. He didn’t react to the cries and the pleads for mercy.

 He was finally learning to shut himself down.

 This was a great moment. Right?

 Another shot.

 A loud echo in his ear.

 He flinched.

 He gasped.

 Heart in his throat. Breath frozen in his lungs.

 Kurt dropped his eyes to the ground. He took a deep breath, his chest screaming in pain. He couldn’t draw their attention. He couldn’t let them know—

 It could just as easily be him. On his knees, hands behind his back. Head bowed. Waiting. That could be him.

 It should be him. He should be with them. Not standing here, gun in hand. He should not be leading them around like dogs on a chains.

 Out the corner of Kurt’s eye, Otto, a fellow guard and his superior, walked down the line, his pistol in hand. He stopped behind the next kneeling worker. He raised the gun.

_BANG!_

 The man fell forward, tumbling into a heap. His blood stained the snow.

 Smoke spiraled from the gun’s barrel.

 Blood rushed in Kurt’s head, pounding against his ear drums.

 But he didn’t react. He couldn’t react. These events were normal. Two months. He’d been here at Buchenwald for two months. Reassigned just before he could set foot in Auschwitz because the Soviets took it from them. _From us._

 Us.

 As if he could ever be one of them.

 Another shot fired.

 The man in front of him crumpled.

 Over and over and over down the line. Until, finally, the end.

 Kurt released a shaky breath. He was here for a reason. He needed to remember that. In the midst of this hell, he needed to remember. Him. To protect him. As Kurt stood here, blood staining his hands and soul, it was for him. He was safe. That was the deal. He was in America, far from this place.

 Another guard—Kurt didn’t remember his name; he didn’t bother—shouted an order.

 And the Sonderkommando workers arrived. They walked slowly, softly, though they weren’t weakened. They weren’t like the other workers. These ones were new and were kept strong.  They had arrived three weeks ago. Replacements. They would be dead in four months, joining those that came before them and those before them. They knew too many secrets. Too many damning secrets. The men reached for the bodies, two per corpse and carried them across the courtyard to the crematorium.

 They would burn them later.

 

 Buchenwald’s gates— _Jedem das Seine_ in stark harsh letters across the bars—swung open, guards guiding them, and a line of cattle trucks roared into the camp. They pulled in, tires grinding into the rocks and sliding on the compacted snow. They drove around and stopped where the bodies had lain.

 More guards, rifles in hand, jumped out of the vehicles and moved to the backs. The cattle truck doors swung open and more workers stumbled into Buchenwald.

 Kurt turned away. Not anymore. He couldn’t watch anymore. He walked to the soldiers’ barracks, hand  still clenching the grip of his gun, finger running across the trigger.

 

* * *

 

Kurt stood outside the quarry, watching the line of workers trudge toward the massive rocks, their feeble tools flung over their shoulders. He didn’t look at their faces. He couldn’t allow them to become human in his eyes. It was easier if he pretended they were no more human than the horses that sometimes pulled the carts of rock from the quarry. He should be with them. Not against them.

 As they passed him, he looked at the numbers and symbols emblazoned on the left side of their ratty garbs.

 7052. Star of David.

 81503. Red triangle.

 5403. Another red triangle.

 48278. Brown triangle.

 4522. Pink triangle. Kurt glanced at the man, his heart in his throat, but he didn’t recognize him. The worker passed by him and Kurt took a deep breath. It wasn’t him. Of course, it wasn’t him. He wouldn’t be here.

 7712. Star of David.

 20609. Pink triangle.

 “Kurt.”

 He jerked his eyes up, but the man was already gone. He knew that voice.

 Blain.

 Kurt couldn’t move. His limbs felt frozen. His heart raced and his stomach flopped. He wasn’t supposed to be here. It wasn’t supposed to be at any of these places. That’s what he was told. That was the arrangement.

 His eyes shifted down the line and he searched for him. But he couldn’t see him, couldn’t find that familiar mop of curly hair. Couldn’t find the big bright eyes like spun gold.

 But he saw Otto take the whip from his belt and lash out at the workers.

 And he heard that voice cry out again.

 He was here.

 

* * *

 

With his orders fresh in his mind, Kurt opened the rickety door to the workers’ dormitory. It slid in its frame with a loud _CREEEEAAAAAK_. And the stench slapped Kurt in the face. Sweat. Piss. Feces. Vomit. Blood. He gagged on it. His stomach heaved. He swallowed back the bile and spoke, “Everyone out.”

 His fingers itched on the grip of his holstered gun. If he needed to, he could fire. If one of the workers tried to attack, he could do it. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 But the workers shuffled past him without word.

 Blain stumbled around him, his head down, limping.

 Kurt reached out and grabbed the thin fabric on his shoulder. “Except you. You stay.”

 Blain glanced at him for an instance then staggered to a halt. He dropped his eyes but Kurt had already seen what he needed to see. One of Blain’s eyes were bruised. His cheek was a deep purple. Blain winced, panting.

 His fellow workers paid no mind. Some even pushed their way past him, causing Blain to waver on his feet. They didn’t care. They didn’t offer words of reassurance. Of camaraderie. There was no secret what happened to men with the pink triangle when left with guards. Even when left with other workers. They didn’t care.

 Kurt’s heart ached. And when the last of the workers fumbled his way out of the building, he closed the door, pulling it shut and leaned against it.

 He looked at Blain. His sweet handsome Blain. His thick curly hair—hair Kurt had loved to run his hands through when they were together—was gone, shaved close to his head. His face was a map of bruises and cuts. Gaunt. Dirt and grime covered his emaciated body.

 He broke down. Tears streamed down his face and swallowed sobs wracked his body. He slid down the door until he was on the ground, his knees to his chest. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

 “Kurt?” Blain’s weak voice whispered. It echoed in the empty room, slamming into Kurt’s ears.

 “Why are you here? They told me you’d be released,” Kurt wailed.

 “Who?”

 “My parents.” Kurt’s chest heaved as he tried to breathe. “They told me if I joined, they would drop the charges against you and you’d be free.” He swiped at his tears.

 “It’s not your fault.”

 Kurt didn’t look at him. He couldn’t look at him. “You should hate me.”

 “You know I could never hate you.”

 Kurt shook his head. “If you knew the things I’ve done, that I’ve been forced to do, you would.” He tore his uniform hat from his head and ran his hands through his hair, fingers tugging on the short strands. “You should hate me anyway. You’re here because of me.”

 “Kurt.”

 He took a shallow breath. And another. Kurt squeezed his eyes shut. Nausea swept through his body. “It’s my fault. I was too proud. I was too stubborn. I refused to listen to my parents. We should have run away. We should have gone to America when we could.” His chest heaved but he couldn’t grab any air. His hands clutched at his chest.

 Blain limped towards him, wincing, and knelt in front of him. He cupped Kurt’s face with his hands. “Listen to me. It’s not your fault.”

 Kurt’s chest heaved. “I can’t breathe.” He reached out and clenched his fingers around the front of Blain’s loose dirty striped shirt, the rough fabric catching the ragged and bloodied quicks of Kurt’s nails.

 “Shh. Slow down, angel. Take deep breaths.”

 Kurt shook his head. “I can’t—”

 “Yes, you can.” Blain leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Kurt’s. “Breathe with me.” He breathed deeply and slowly.

 Kurt closed his eyes and pressed his hand against Blain’s chest. He took a slow breath. And another one. This wasn’t real. They weren’t here. They were in their small apartment in Berlin. Before the war. They were safe. Wrapped together in their blankets on their bed. He dug his ragged fingernails into Blain’s shirt. His breathing slowed.

 “There. See?” Blain pressed his lips against Kurt’s forehead. “It’s not your fault.”

 Kurt shook his head, pulling away from him and pressing his back against the wooden door behind him. “How can you say that? How can you sit there and be more concerned about me, when you’re—” He broke off, stifling another cry. Blain was so weak. His body, so broken.

 “How long have you been doing this?”

 Kurt shook his head. How could Blain be so kind and gentle with him? How could he not care about the pain and the torture he’d gone through because Kurt couldn’t do one thing that was asked of him by his family? How could he be so selfless? Kurt knew other guards had come in and held him down and—

 He choked back a sob.

 Blain should hate him. He had every right to hate him. He should hate him.

 Would it be easier if Blain did hate him?

 “We need to get you out of here. It’s destroying you.” Blain rubbed his hand across Kurt’s shoulder.

 Kurt collapsed against him, crying, not caring about the stench of Blain’s clothes.

 Blain wrapped his weak arms around Kurt as best he could, tightening his hold of him.

 Outside the dormitory, a guard shouted.

 The loud _BANG_ of a gunshot.

 Kurt jerked away from Blain, tearing himself away from him. He clambered to his feet, sending Blain sprawling to the ground. “We can’t. We can’t do this.”

 Blain crawled to his knees, sitting on his haunches. “Kurt—”

 Kurt shook his head, pacing. He chewed on a raw and broken nail. “I can’t. They’ll kill you. And me. We can’t.”

 Blain struggled to his feet.

 “You try to survive, you understand me? You try to make it through this, okay? We pray the Allies will win and then we pray they’ll save you. Take you to America.”

 Blain took an unsteady step forward. “What about you? We pray they’ll save you, too.”

 Kurt shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “I’m passed saving, Blain. Nothing can save me. But you—you’ve done nothing wrong. They’ll save you. We have to make sure of that. If either of us deserve to be saved, it’s you.”

 Blain took another wobbly step. “No. You, too.”

 “I love you. Please, remember that.”

 “Of course. I love you, too.”

 “I’m sorry,” Kurt whispered. This was how it had to be. He reeled back and punched Blain in the face. No one could know of their connection.

 Blain fell to the ground, groaning and clutching his face.

 Kurt closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

 “It’s—”

 Okay? Kurt wanted to scream at him. It wasn’t okay. It would never be okay. Never again. He took a deep breath. He had to do what he was ordered. He’d already take too long. “I’ve been ordered to bring you to Dr. Vaernet.” He opened his eyes and met Blain’s. Blain needed to survive this. He needed to show that he was stronger than any of Dr. Varnet’s twisted and cruel experiments. That he was a fighter.

 Blain trembled. His eyes grew large. “Yes, sir.”  

 “I’m sorry. Try to hold on.” He seized Blain, pulling out his gun from its holster, and pushed him out of the dormitory. He didn’t help him when Blain stumbled to the ground again.

 He had to be cruel.

 This was the only way. 

 

* * *

 

 

 This was his life now. Standing stoically by as he watched the line of workers trudge past him. As he watched them stumble over small rocks, ragged shoes and bare bloodied feet snagging and catching on the rubble.

 Kurt had fought back a cry of relief earlier when Blain had lumbered past him, head down and legs shaking. He hadn’t seen him since that day in the dormitory. He was still alive. He’d survived Dr. Vaernet. If he could just hold on, then—

 A CRACK! of a whip.

 

 Kurt whipped his head to look down the line. But he couldn’t see anything. The other guards blocked his view. He sighed, took a deep breath and walked closer to the commotion.

 Through the gaps in the guards’ legs, he could see a worker collapsed on the ground, his body trembling. A worker who could no longer do his work.

 “GET UP!” Otto shouted, snapping the whip in the air above the worker.

 The man rose to his hands and knees, his limbs wobbling greatly. He struggled to move a leg underneath him. But he fell to the ground again, a whimper coming from his throat.

 Kurt arrived and two guards moved aside so he could stand between them. He looked at the worker. And his heart stopped.

 

 It was Blain.

 “Up!” Otto snapped the whip again, lashing across Blain’s back.

 Blain cried out, the gash on his thin back gushing blood. He took a shallow breath. “I can’t.” His voice was weak and Kurt struggled to hear it over the pounding of pickaxes against rock.

 Otto spit on him, wrapping the whip up and attached it to his belt. He turned to Kurt. “Hummel, get rid of this.”

 “W—” Kurt swallowed the lump in his throat. “What?”

 Otto marched toward him. He stopped inches from Kurt’s face, his large form towering over him. “Get. Rid. Of him.”

 Kurt trembled. “How—”

 Otto smirked at him. “What do you do when your horse can no longer carry its load?”

 Kurt peered around Otto and met Blain’s eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. “You-you shoot it.”

 The large man patted him on the cheek. “Very good.” He stepped back and swept his arm out towards Blain. “So you know how to handle this.”

 Kurt swallowed thickly. “Y-yes, sir.” He looked at Blain and Otto stomped behind him.

 Blain struggled to his hands and knees, his head down. He was waiting.

 Kurt approached him, his knees shaky. He drew his gun from his holster and raised it with a trembling hand. He pointed it at Blain’s hand, his finger wavering on the trigger.

 “Today, Hummel.”

 Kurt’s chest ached. A familiar burn in the backs of his eyes. He stared down the barrel of the gun, the sight blurry in his eyes. His chin trembled. Sweat poured down his forehead.

 “It’s not your fault,” Blain whispered.

Kurt fought for a breath. This wasn’t supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to succeed. Blain was supposed to be saved by the Allies. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Kurt felt a sob claw its way up his throat. He clenched his jaw and bit his lip. He couldn’t cry.

 “Please. I can’t do this anymore.” Blain’s weak body quaked and he faltered, catching himself before his face smashed into the ground. He righted himself. “Please, Kurt.”

_BANG_!

 Kurt jerked back, the gun loose in his hand. He looked down. Smoke spiraled from the barrel. He looked past it. Blain lay on the ground, blood seeping from the back of his head. The hole in his head blooming outward, speckles and flakes of gray in a sea of red. He shook his head.

 Two workers—the Sonderkommando—reached down and grabbed Blain. He was not moving. He wouldn’t move again. They dragged him away, his legs limp behind him.

 Blood rushed in his head, pounding against his eardrums.

 

 He was dead.

 

Blain was gone.

 

He did that.

 It was his fault.

 It was all his fault.

 

 He stumbled back, his hand tightening around his gun.

 He turned away.

 He moved from the quarry.

 Away from the barracks.

 Towards the gate.

 Out the gate.

 

 Where he collapsed.

 And the tears came.

 

  _“Do you believe in soul mates?” Blain had asked him one evening, wrapping his arms around Kurt’s naked body._

_Kurt lifted his head from Blain’s chest and looked at him. He smiled. “Sure, I guess.” He leaned forward and kissed him._

_Blain broke the kiss. “I think that we’ve lived before. Several times.”_

_Kurt wrinkled his nose, smiling. “What brought this existential conversation on?”_

_Blain shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. I just—I think we lived lives before searching for one another. Trying to be with one another. It’s never felt like I’ve been getting to know you. It felt like I was remembering you.”_

_“Okay. If that’s true, why do you think we’ve done this over and over?”_

_“Tragedy. I think the universe hasn’t allowed us our happy ending yet.”_

_Kurt frowned. “Well, this got depressing.”_

_“Sorry.” Blain dropped another kiss on his lips._

_“Maybe this is the right time for us?” Kurt whispered against his lips._

_“I don’t know. I hope so.”_

_“Well,” Kurt said. “I’ll tell you what I do know. I know that I love you. I know that I will always you. That you are the only one I want. I would do anything to keep you safe. I would do anything to fight for you, if I had to. No one will ever take you away from me. If that makes you my soul mate, then okay. Good.”_

_Blain smiled. “Yeah?”_

_Kurt giggled. “Yeah.”_

 

 A thick veil of tears shrouded Kurt’s vision, the trees in front of him blurring into the snow. His hand wrapped around the hard grip of the gun, sweaty fingers slipping on the cold metal. He lifted it. Cocked it. Stuck the barrel in his mouth.

 

 And pulled the trigger.

 

 

 

Two weeks later, on April 11, 1945, troops from the US 9th Armored Infantry Battalion arrived at the gates of Buchenwald at 3:15 PM. They had answered the prisoners’ SOS.


	11. 1981, Kirk and Blair

 

_BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—_

 Kirk slapped off the alarm. He sat up, letting the sheets gather at his waist. His hands strayed to the cold empty half of the bed. He glanced at it and sighed. He looked away. The dingy walls, the peeling wallpaper and the stains assaulted his eyes. He threw the sheets back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet slid into his worn slippers and he stood. He shivered, the cool air surrounding him.

 A step forward.

 And a nasty crack and pop under his foot.

 A roach. 

He squeezed his eyes shut.

 He hadn’t had the heart to tell him yet about their home. How they lost it because they were missing the large paycheck. How his meager check from the diner on the corner couldn’t begin to cover the payment. How he was now living in this shit hole.

 Kirk couldn’t break his heart further.

 It wouldn’t be for long anyway.

 A tear fell from his eye and he wiped it away.

 He needed to get ready.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 The elevator doors opened, jerking in their frame. Kirk took a deep breath and stepped onto the floor. His hands shook and he shoved them into the front pockets of his hoodie. His stomach was tense and he choked on a heave. His eyes dropped to the stark VISITOR badge fastened to his clothes.

 Kirk trudged to the nurse’s station, searching for Nurse Cathy. But he couldn’t see her. Only the other nurses. He halted, not wanting to move closer. He hated dealing with them. Where was Cathy? She was the only one in here who didn’t look at him like his very presence would infect them. She was the only one who cared.

 And she came around the corner, a clipboard in her hand; he relaxed. She just finished a visit with a patient. She gave Kirk a small polite smile and motioned him over.

 Kirk walked past the station and ignored the stares and whispers from the other nurses. They all knew who he was. He’d been here so many times for so long. “How is he?” he asked her.

 Cathy smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. She shrugged. “Today’s better. But—”

 He sighed and nodded. Of course, he wasn’t going to be better.

 “I just checked on him, so he’s awake. He asked about you. When you were coming in. He’ll be happy to see you.”

 “Thank you.”

 She reached out and patted him on the shoulder before stepping around and going to the nurse’s station.

 He turned the corner, her sharp quiet words—‘Stop gawking. He is the loved one of a terminal patient. Treat him as such. Not a sideshow attraction.’—to her fellow nurses loud in his ears. Kirk stopped at his door, staring at his name emblazoned in black Sharpie on the nameplate to the side of the door. Another deep breath. He could do this. He pushed his hair out of his face with a trembling hand. He needed to do this. He knocked on the door and, pushing it open, entered.

 Blair lay in the small hospital bed, thin and fragile. The white blanket covered him from the waist down. He looked over and smiled, his teeth showing. He stretched his hand out. So handsome. Even with the pink blotches covering his eyelids and around his nose and mouth. Nothing could make him less than beautiful.

 Kirk rushed to his bed and took his hand. He brushed a kiss across the back of his hand and dropped into the chair next to the bed. “How are you?”

 Blair squeezed his hand. “Better now that you’re here.”

 A burning in the backs of Kirk’s eyes. He\HHeHe looked down at their joined hands. How much longer do they have? He needed to tell him. He needed to know.

 “Kirk?”

 “I have it, too.” The whispered words fell from his lips, crashing into the space between them.

 “What?”

 He was going to make him repeat? Kirk took a deep breath and looked at him. “The doctor told me I have it, too.” He spoke stronger, but his voice cracked.

 Blair’s face fell. “Kirk—” He shook his head. “You can’t have it. No. I refuse to accept that.”

 Tears fell from Kirk’s eyes. _Please, don’t do this. Don’t do this to me._ “I do. You have to. You don’t have a choice.”

 “No, you don’t.” Blair tightened his grip on his hand. “God wouldn’t let someone as beautiful and pure and good as you have this. The doctor is wrong.”

 Kirk shook his head. “Don’t do this to me. Please, Blair.”

 He pulled on Kirk’s hand, dragging him closer. “No. You go get a second opinion. You _demand_ a second opinion.”

 Kirk yanked his hand from his, standing up and pacing. “You don’t think I haven’t done that, Blair?”

 He shook his head, his face blurry through Kirk’s tears.

 “I did. I asked four doctors at four different clinics in the city. They all say I have it.” Kirk gagged on a sob. He looked at Blair’s broken body on the bed, disappearing, wasting away. That was his future. “I have it and I’m going to die alone.”

 The dam burst and his tears wouldn’t stop. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and choked on a sob, trying to staunch the cries. Kirk didn’t want the nurses rushing in here. Didn’t want to be forced out of the room for fear of upsetting the patients. He needed him. He collapsed against the side of the bed, pressing his face into the thin hard mattress.

 Blair’s hands fell to the back of his head, brushing his hair back. He leaned over him and his breath brushed across the back of his neck. “You’re strong enough to fight this. If anyone can fight and win, it’d be you.”

 Kirk shook his head, pressing his face further into the mattress. “No. No, I’m not, Blair,” he whispered, his words muffled. He sat up and looked at him. “I’m terrified. I have to do it alone because you won’t be there.” Kirk looked away from him—he couldn’t look into his wet eyes—and stared at the ceiling. “And I’m so horrible. I’m a horrible person. You’re dying and all I can think about is how you won’t be there for me. And how alone and scared I’ll be.”

 “You won’t be alone.”

 Kirk’s eyes darted back to him. “Yes, I will. You’re all I have, Blair!” he sobbed. No one else. He had no one else. He had parents who didn’t care. Parents who kicked him out of the house when he was sixteen. If it wasn’t for Blair, he would be dead in an alley. And now, he was dying and needed him more than ever. “And you won’t be there.”

 The mattress shifted. Kirk looked up.

 Blair scooted over in his bed. He stretched an arm out. “Come here.”

 Kirk shook his head. He had not lain in this bed with him. He looked fragile. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 He scoffed. “You won’t. I promise you, you won’t. Just—just come here.”

 Kirk swiped at his face, chasing the tears away, and climbed into the bed with him. Blair scooted further so that he was on his side, pressed against the far rail. Kirk lay on his side, facing him. Blair draped an arm around his waist.

 Blair hummed. “I missed this.”

 Kirk sniffled and pressed his forehead against his. “How do you do it, Blair?”

 Blair kissed him, his lips skimming across his. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “You just do.”

 His chin quivered and more tears slid from his eyes.

 Blair pulled him closer.

 “This was supposed to be our time. We were going to make it. That’s what you said.” Kirk tightened his hold on Blair’s waist.

 Blair kissed his forehead and Kirk tucked his chin against his shoulder. “Shh, it’s okay. So I was a little off.” Blair chuckled, but it was marred with tears. “Next time, I promise. It’ll be our turn next time.”

 A small giggle slipped through Kirk’s lips. And he nodded, pressing his face against his chest. “Next time.”

  

* * *

 

Again, as he had done so many times before and after his own diagnosis, Kirk stepped off the elevator, pinning the VISITOR badge to his shirt. Again, he searched for Nurse Cathy. And again, he asked how he was doing.

 She sighed. “It won’t be long now. I’m sorry.”

 Kirk dropped his eyes. He felt the familiar burn of tear tracks down his face. He nodded, staring at the linoleum floor. “Thank you. For everything.” He couldn’t express how much her support—even through the smallest of acts—meant to him. To Blair.

 She pulled him into an embrace. “Of course, sweetheart.”

 He stepped back and trudged to the door, hesitating. This would be the last time. He knew it. He felt it. His body trembled and went cold. He grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.

 There wasn’t time to linger.

 Blair didn’t speak. He raised his arm, resting his elbow on the mattress. The blotches on his face were darker. He was rail thin.

 Kirk gently took his hand and kissed it. “Hey, baby,” he whispered.

 Blair struggled to his side, sliding back against the far rail of the bed.

 Kirk sat in the bed, swinging his legs over and cradled Blair to his chest.

 He rested against him, his eyes closed. “Kirk?” he whispered, his voice muffled through the oxygen mask he’d been forced to wear as the disease wracked his body further.

 Kirk kissed the crown of his head. “Yes, love?”

 He took a slow breath, wheezing. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

 Kirk smiled, though he couldn’t see it, not with his eyes closed. It was one of the happiest days of Kirk’s life. “Of course, I do.”

 “I—I can’t.” Blair shook his head, pressing against him, his brows furrowed. “I can’t remember.”

 Tears fell from Kirk’s eyes. Another thing the disease stole from his body. Memories. One by one the memories disappeared. Sometimes they came back, but sometimes they didn’t, devoured by the monstrous sickness. Kirk hugged him closer. This was his future.

 “Can you tell it to me?”

 “Of course.” Kirk took a deep breath and wrapped his arm around Blair’s shoulder tighter, his fingers digging into the itchy fabric of the hospital gown. “It was 1966. Candlestick Park. The Beatles.” Kirk looked at his face.

 Blair’s brows wrinkled. His lips pursed. He licked his chapped lips. “They were amazing.”

 Was he remembering the concert? Or just remembering how much he loved the band?

 “Yeah.” Kirk exhaled and glanced at the ceiling, trying to staunch his tears. Blair didn’t need that. “We were sixteen.”

 “And—” He paused; Kirk didn’t interrupt him. Blair needed to do this himself, he knew that. When his memory first started developing holes and Blair struggled, Kirk tried to tell him everything, not giving him a chance to remember. Blair had exploded, scared and frustrated. It was the first and only time that Blair had kicked him out of the room, tears streaming down his face.

 “We danced together to, uh, was it ‘I Wanna Be Your Man?’” Blair whispered.

 Kirk laughed once. His free hand came up to his wet face and he brushed the tears away. “Yeah, we did. We didn’t even know each other. And we didn’t see each other again until—”

 “1974. Times Square.”

 “Yeah.” Blair had just graduated college and he had all these amazing plans. He was finding success. And Kirk, broken and a high school dropout, was on the street, having hitchhiked all the way from San Francisco. Broadway. That had been his plan. It didn’t work out. No one was interested in auditioning a dirty smelly kid from the streets. “1974. When you quite literally ran into me. On the other side of the country. It was like—”

 Blair coughed. “Fate. I knew.” He wheezed, his breath whistling from his nose. “You know. When we danced together. I knew you were the one. I—” He took another shallow breath and fell silent.

 “I love you.” Kirk kissed his forehead.

 Blair relaxed, sagging against him. Another shallow breath. Words murmured so softly, words he could barely muster the strength to utter. “Can you sing for me? I miss your voice.”

 Kirk hesitated. He hadn’t sung since Blair was forced to go to the hospital, too sick to care for himself. For Kirk to take care of him. The music had left him that day. But Kirk couldn’t deny him. “What do you want me to sing?”

 “It doesn’t matter.”

 He fell silent. One minute past. Another minute.

 Blair was growing weaker. He felt it. His soul leaving his. The Grim Reaper was coming to take him away from Kirk today. The tears fell down his face unbidden. He sniffled. “ _Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they’re here to stay_ —”

 “No,” Blair wheezed. “H-happier.”

 Kirk nodded. Of course. Of course, he didn’t mean it when he said he didn’t care. He cared. He took a shaky breath. “ _There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done. Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung. Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game. It’s easy._ ” Kirk paused.

 Blair didn’t move, but his shallow breaths were slowing, the time between them lengthening.

 Kirk gasped, fighting tears. “ _Nothing you can make that can’t be made. No one you can save that can’t be saved. Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time. It’s easy._ ”

 He stilled. A final exhale.

 Then nothing.

 Kirk wrapped his arms around him. Pulled him close.

 “ _All you need is love. Love. Love is all you need_.”

 He sobbed.

 Now, he was alone.

 


	12. 2012, Kurt Hummel

 

Shattered.

 His heart stood still in his chest, a thousand shards piercing him, as those words echoed over and over in his mind. Four simple words.

 What was supposed to be forever, what he knew, what he _felt_ had to be forever was gone. Over.

 Four words.

_I was with someone._

 How did he get it so wrong? How did he let himself fall for it?

 He thought they were forever.

 He thought their time had finally come.

 He had bore the weight of memories from other times, from other lives and he thought that he wasn’t alone under their weight. He thought they shared it. He thought they were supposed to be. This was it. This was going to be their turn. Their turn at a happy ending.

 He thought that Blaine was the one he was searching for.

 He was wrong.


	13. 2013, Kurt E. Hummel and Blaine D. Anderson

 

“So—” Blaine took a deep breath, looking at the ring box in his hands. He looked back at Kurt, smiling. “Kurt Hummel. My amazing friend. My one true love.” He knelt down on one knee and opened the box. “Will you marry me?”

 And it was the easiest decision. Because it was right. It was how it was supposed to be. Kurt nodded, tears in his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah.”

 Around them, everyone cheered and applauded.

 Blaine, smiling widely, stepped up another step and, cupping the back of Kurt’s head with a hand, pulled him into a deep kiss.

 Kurt breathed into the kiss, his arms coming up to embrace Blaine and pull him closer. The cheers and hollers echoed in his ears. Blaine ended the kiss and Kurt, eyes slowly opening, took a deep breath.

 Blaine took his hand and placed the ring on Kurt’s finger.

 Kurt looked at it, smiling and laughing. He hugged Blaine.

 And Kurt finally felt home. That hole in his heart that he carried around with him for so many months, healed.

 Two years ago: It wasn’t the first time they met. It wasn’t the first time they fell in love. Kurt felt the truth of Blaine’s words. He’d known the truth of those words forever. They’d been together before. Different names. Different times. Sometimes it was but for a moment. Sometimes it was a lifetime. Often it was met with tragedy. Tragic love stories desperate for their happy endings, destined to repeat themselves until they could get it right. And this time, Kurt thought they may have done it.

 His tears fell and he didn’t stop them. He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut and letting the tears trickle down his face. Kurt tightened his arms around Blaine’s and buried his face in the crook of his neck. A sob exploded from his throat, taking him by surprise.

 Blaine moved to pull away, but Kurt tightened his grip.

 “Kurt? Are you okay?”

 He nodded into Blaine’s neck. “Yeah. I-It’s just—do you remember it? Do you remember everything?” Everything. The tears. The fears. The loss. Kurt’s body felt heavy, the weight of those memories he’d carried with him for so long. Memories he thought he’d bear alone in this lifetime. Memories he thought were mistakes, heavy memories given to him by mistake, that were meant for another when Blaine had uttered those four words that fateful night. He pressed his lips against Blaine’s neck. “Do you remember?”

 Blaine pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against Kurt’s. “I remember everything, angel,” he whispered. “And I’m so sorry it took me so long to remember. I’m sorry for all the pain and the loneliness and the confusion and everything—”

 Kurt shook his head. “Don’t.” He kissed him. “Everything’s okay now. Everything’s okay.”

 


End file.
